


All of my Stumbling Phrases

by MadameReveuse



Category: American Revolution RPF, John Adams (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Multi, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threesome - F/M/M, and politics, you name it we have it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameReveuse/pseuds/MadameReveuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in Philadelphia, on a hot summer night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Words on Skin

**Author's Note:**

> oh the thrill of writing abt two founding fathers going at it  
> I'm not even American, does that make this better or worse  
> Yes, the title is a Florence and the Machine lyric. The entire fic is actually Florence and the Machine songs with some history thrown in. Also I kinda have this theory that Thomas Jefferson actually secretly is Florence Welsh... they're just not telling us.  
> It's 1:30 in the morning.  
> Enjoy this fic  
> it'll probably end up having around 5 chapters, maybe less, maybe more  
> Also?? I just love how John called Abby "my dearest friend" in his letters?? Idk if she did that too, I just kinda wrote it that way. His relationship with his wife is the best thing about John Adams I swear. It's so "THIS IS MY WIFE WHO IS ALSO MY BEST FRIEND SHE'S AMAZING AND SHE DROVE ME HERE"

It started in Philadelphia, on a hot summer night.

“Mr. Adams,” Jefferson said, “I cannot write your document.”

John Adams had been about to undress for bed. This late-night visit from his defeated-looking colleague was not only unannounced, it was entirely unexpected.

“What is this, Mr. Jefferson?” Adams asked. “You cannot? I thought we had agreed that you should write it.”

“As you know I was already tasked with writing the Virginia constitution.”

“I’m sure that can wait a day or two. Virginia is not going to drop off the earth if it stays without a constitution for a little while longer. As _you_ know, I have managed to draft constitutions for several states, besides my congressional duties.”

Jefferson’s shoulders slumped a little, betraying his resignation. “I really haven’t the mind for it.”

John had a closer look at his fellow congressman. Jefferson was by nature a quiet, reticent, not very sociable man. Now there seemed to be a crack in his composure. Maybe his turning up on John’s doorstep in the middle of the night was his admitting that he needed help.

“Have you brought your notes with you?”

“No, I have not…”

John sighed and mentally prepared for working through the night.

“Let’s step over to your rooms and peruse the matter together…”

 

* * *

 

Walking through the sleeping city, they did not speak. This was not uncommon when taking walks with Jefferson, but still John felt like something was different than usual tonight. He kept turning his head to try to catch Jefferson’s eyes on him, but found the man looking straight ahead every time. And yet, he felt like he was being watched by him. The night was so warm that the air seemed to engulf them, wrapping them up in dark velvet, but looking at Jefferson, John felt himself shiver, not with nerves or fear but almost in anticipation of something he could not name.

 

* * *

 

“Good god,” he huffed. “What is all this chaos?”

Jefferson’s apartment was in extreme disorder, the floor littered with crumpled-up papers, the waste bin overflowing with them.

“I have tried to write a draft for you,” Jefferson said simply.

The shiver came back and lodged itself in John’s spine. _For you_ , Jefferson had said. He hadn’t said _for congress_. Or even _for the declaration of independence_. No, _for you_. John sat down heavily in a chair next to Jefferson’s writing desk.

“Well, has anything worthwhile come of it?” he asked.

“Not really,” Jefferson sighed. “I cannot focus on it. The night is too warm and my mind is consumed with…” He halted abruptly.

“With the Virginia constitution?” Adams prompted.

“Yes,” Jefferson agreed, inexplicably reddening. Adams looked him over.

The temperature caused the both of them to perspire slightly. John, as a Northerner considerably less used to the warm weather than Jefferson, was no doubt sweating more, and yet some tiny strands of red hair had fallen out of Jefferson’s loose queue and were stuck damply to his forehead. John was struck by the urge to extend his hand and wipe them out of Jefferson’s face. His hand on the table twitched, but he controlled himself.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I suggest, then, that you write a quick outline of it and then, with that out of the way, you can devote your full attention to our task.”

“Yes,” Jefferson breathed, but he looked like he hardly knew what he was agreeing to. He had noticed the movement of John’s hand on the desk and had his eyes transfixed on it. He was breathing a bit heavily, his lips slightly parted.

“Are you alright?” John asked and now he had to lean forward, scrutinizing Jefferson in concern.

“Yes. I don’t know. Mr. Adams…” Jefferson muttered, leaning forward also. “I must admit I have been… watching you, during the debates.”

Their faces were suddenly very close. John became aware that he was technically inhaling the same breath Jefferson had just exhaled and he didn’t know how to feel about that. He could also smell no alcohol on the man’s breath. Not that Jefferson was in the habit to indulge but… it would at least explain the odd thing that had just come out of his mouth.

The statement in itself would have been perfectly innocuous in any other situation. Everyone knew that Jefferson was an observer, not a talker. Of course he would watch other politicians, especially ones who were as active in debates as John Adams, to see how they did it. But John had a weird feeling that this was not what Jefferson was getting at. The way his voice sounded… like he was disclosing a most intimate secret…

“The heat is getting to you,” he said. “I shall get you a drink of water.”

“It’s not the heat,” Jefferson insisted, blushing more. “Or, maybe it is. But… I can’t help but… I adore you, Mr. Adams.”

“You…what?” Again, John was pretty sure that Jefferson did not mean for this to be an expression of his admiration of John’s political savvy. He now looked at his fellow congressman in a whole new light. So maybe it was not fever that was making Jefferson’s features glow like this… maybe it was… desire?

“Mr. Jefferson,” John said, trying and failing to sound like he was just making a little joke. “Have you come to my rooms tonight to proposition me?”

“I… don’t know. Perhaps.”

John flinched upright. The very concept behind that thought was entirely foreign to him. He had never thought of Jefferson, or any man, in that way. It was forbidding, it went against so many things he had taken for granted about himself and the way of the world. And yet…

He had never met anyone like Jefferson, with a mind quite like Jefferson’s. He transcended all these things, somehow. He transcended conventions.

“You are repulsed,” Jefferson said, misinterpreting his silence.

“No,” John said hurriedly. “I’m just… thinking. This is very…”

“Yes?”

“You’ve got to admit this is…unconventional.”

“Mr. Adams, I…”

This back and forth between them was awkward and painful and John thought he should end it. Reason dictated he should do so by leaning back in and kissing the man on the lips. It was a good moment for it. So he did that.

Jefferson made a soft noise upon impact and immediately opened his mouth into the kiss. They wasted about two seconds on being soft and hesitant but then, as the want for each other overwhelmed them, their kiss got as heated and fervent as it was artless, sloppy and slightly wet. They didn’t want to separate for something as trivial as air and ended up panting into each other’s mouths.

“What on earth are we doing.”

“I don’t know, but Mr. Adams, I’ve been wanting you.”

John couldn’t help but make a low noise deep down in his throat at that. “You’re too far away.”

“We were attached at the lips not one minute ago, my dear sir,” Jefferson said, still with that goddamned Southern politeness.

“There is a wooden desk between us,” John replied, hitting said desk with his hand for emphasis. Hearing that, Jefferson shifted in his seat and, with a nod of his head, gestured for John to come hither.

John was all too eager to practically sit on Jefferson’s lap and pull him close, to plunge his hands into waves of red hair, to resume their kissing and lose himself in bliss. Still there was an urgency to things, and even the bodily contact they now had was not enough. They blindly groped against each other, fumbling with buttons and neckties. John could feel himself growing hard, and when he trailed a hand up Jefferson’s thigh, he discovered purely by accident that the other man was suffering from same. At having his dick touched, Jefferson hummed appreciatively and tried to get even closer, to get more friction.

“Wait,” John gasped, breaking away.

“How about we do not wait,” Jefferson muttered, almost absent-mindedly, intent on undoing John’s cravat.

“Your wife. In Virginia.”

Now Jefferson snapped his eyes up. In a slightly disquieting way, John now had the man’s full attention.

“And yours,” he said, “in Massachusetts.”

“God, I know.” Of course now he had to be reminded of Abby. And he had not ended up here because he did not love Abby. John Adams worshipped his wife. And yet, here he was…

“You know, you can get off me,” Jefferson said quietly.

“No,” John groaned and kissed him again. It was ridiculous, here they were, husbands, fathers, both men filled with love for their families, rutting against each other in the dark like senseless animals. But they didn’t seem to want to stop. Jefferson had finally removed John’s cravat and was now opening his vest, all the while marking every new patch of skin he exposed with hickeys he was sure no one would see. John, grateful for the attentions, could only reciprocate by at least trying to remove some of Jefferson’s clothes in turn. When the junction of his neck and shoulder was harshly sucked on, all he could do was clutch him tight.

“Thomas,” he hissed out.

“Oh, Mr. Adams,” Jefferson muttered, licking the spot where a mark was already forming. “I have been delirious with wanting you. I could not think of anything else. I could not write. I could not _live_.”

Then suddenly, the chair lurched beneath them.

“What is this! Is it going to give way?” John had no other explanation for this sudden shifting; maybe their combined weight was more than the chair could stand.

“No,” Jefferson said, smiling a little. “It is a chair that spins. I designed it that way.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I find spinning things relaxes me.”

“Certainly not in this position.”

Jefferson’s smile was somewhat lopsided, but it looked genuine. John found he liked it. “No, not really. On the bed, then.”

They somehow managed to shed most of their clothes on the way there, and when they finally gracelessly tumbled down onto the bed, they couldn’t keep their hands and mouths off each other. Both their cocks were hard and straining and they had angled their hips so that they were grinding up against each other. Already Jefferson was trying to stifle his moans, and John found himself driven out of his mind by the friction.

“I want…” It was half a whimper. Finally Jefferson had found his voice. Tonight was honestly the first time John ever heard him vocalize his wants. “More. Closer.”

“I don’t know how.” They broke apart for a moment, John with a sound that was half huff, half laugh. “We’re not very good at this, are we? How _does_ one commit buggery?”

“They hang a few sodomites every year,” Jefferson said a little harshly. “They sure knew how it was done.”

“Unfortunately we cannot ask them. We are lost without a guide.”

Jefferson sighed. “I have perused volumes upon volumes about the Greeks. Too bad they didn’t go into detail regarding techniques.”

“Yes, too bad.” He trailed a hand up Jefferson’s thigh and grasped his cock, giving it a few shallow strokes. “Just this then?”

Jefferson whimpered and tried to shift closer. “I _know_ there are other _ways_.”

“We can find out about them another time. Just, tonight, please, I need you _now_.”

“Then, yes. Just this.”

“Here, let me.”

John took both their cocks in his hand and jerked them together, brought closer to the brink by every moan Jefferson forgot to stifle now that he, too, was nearing orgasm. John loved the control he had; the younger man was basically putty in his hands, was clinging to him, hips bucking into his touch. For Jefferson to relinquish control, for John to obtain it, they had needed this.

They came almost simultaneously, Jefferson first, John chasing him. There was a sticky mess of come everywhere; on their bodies, around on the bedsheets, and in the stifling heat they could do no more than tiredly and haphazardly wipe each other clean using the blankets. They remained stretched out on the bed, not touching because they were sticky and gross, but together.

“You should go home maybe,” Jefferson slurred, his eyes half-lidded, looking close to falling asleep.

_Maybe he has a point,_ John thought. Maybe he shouldn’t spend the night here. People would notice. He made a valiant effort to move, but his limbs were heavy as lead and would not yield to his commands. Not that he wanted them to very much. He was just so tired. It had been a long day and now this…

He opened his eyes again when he felt Jefferson sit up. He observed as the man rubbed at his eyes, yawned and grabbed at his nightstand, taking an object from it.

“I thought you were falling asleep,” John said.

“I cannot. See, I just thought of a great opening paragraph for our declaration.”

John saw that Jefferson was now holding a quill and a small inkwell. With a satisfied noise, he drifted off to sleep, secure in the knowledge that finally progress was being made.

 

* * *

 

He woke up the next morning with writing covering his chest.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Adams, I couldn’t find any paper.”

“We just slept together. Call me John.” John looked down on himself and tried to decipher what he saw there.

“When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and assume among the powers of the earth… this is quite good.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I assure you. Keep it up.”

 

* * *

 

This day was a congress day, and they went together, almost strangers again as soon as they stepped into the hall. John, as usual, sat at the very forefront of the Massachusetts delegation and stole glances at Jefferson taking his place in the very back of the Virginia one where he, by the look of it, promptly zoned out. He never looked back at him, and didn’t say a word.

The next day congress didn’t meet, and he was back at John’s door.

“I’ve tried again to write it,” he explained, looking unnerved. “It is no use. I touch quill to paper but no thoughts are forthcoming. Please, Mr. Adams.”

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“You can help me find my words. Somehow, you can. Please, John.”

“Lock the door behind you,” John said quietly. “Wouldn’t want anyone intruding.”

This time John took him in his mouth, made him fall apart with just his lips and his tongue. He had orally pleasured his wife before, and tried telling himself that this was not too different. But of course it was. For one, Abigail did not have red pubic hair.

 

* * *

 

Did he, he pondered a while later, do this purely to further progress on the declaration? Jefferson was reliant on him in his battle against writer’s block, and post-orgasmic glow seemed to do wonders for his creativity. John looked at the man next to him in his bed, scribbling on a piece of paper with enthusiasm. Jefferson looked different when he was writing, he looked absorbed, and happily so. John tried to think of a single other time he had seen the man truly happy. He could not think of any.

“Your indictment of the king rolls well off the tongue,” he said, leaning his head on his bedmate’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the writing. “You should read this out to congress when you’re finished with it.”

Jefferson ended a sentence with a decisive full stop. “The very thought mortifies me.”

John huffed. “I will never understand you. What kind of politician is not also an orator?”

Jefferson looked up from his paper and directly at John. “My kind,” he said simply.

“Mr. Jefferson, the more I learn of you, the more I come to the conclusion that there is no one of your kind.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened slightly, their gaze intensifying. “Please. Do call me Thomas. Like you did the other night.” He leaned in and gave John a small, soft kiss. “You taste odd.”

“You’re tasting merely yourself.”

“Let me reciprocate,” Thomas said, going down.

 

* * *

 

The switch from Jefferson, his colleague, to Thomas, his lover and friend, was easily made.

Thomas was quiet and not known to socialize much, and John Adams was obnoxious and disliked, so no one cared or ever inquired about what they did in their spare time.

So they… convened. A lot. At first they tried to limit themselves to just the nights, but their need for each other consumed them when they were apart. They had to see each other during the day, too. In the stifling Philadelphia heat, they made love. Slowly and cautiously they learned each other, and what to put where for which results. Thomas knew where to touch and how to tease all the pent-up frustration out of John after a particularly stressful congress meeting, and John knew what to do to coax Thomas out of his reverie and make him clutch at the sheets and utter curses he had picked up from – as he confessed – his slaves. John had never thought he’d hear one of these self-proclaimed Southern Gentlemen curse like Thomas did when John did that thing with his tongue that he loved that had him writhing and gasping for more.

In the golden glow of post-coital exhaustion, Jefferson wrote best. Sometimes he would reach for the quill in the middle of the act itself and scribble blotchy notes on John’s skin and the ink got runny with sweat. When they looked at the writing later, it would always be a piece of the most ingenious prose John had ever read. Sometimes they would stay together afterwards and idly chat for hours between lazy kisses, about politics and their fellow congressmen and what they would do when (if) the British were defeated. John reveled in these hours as much as they puzzled him. Because they were where the line was drawn between pure carnal pleasure, between two lonely and frustrated men whiling away the hours with each other that they couldn’t spend with their wives, and something else.

John found he liked just looking at Thomas, or talking to him and enjoying that he was starting to let his hair down a little, enough to have actual deep conversations. Sometimes they read or wrote letters in silence, but the silence was never uncomfortable. It was just that Thomas preferred peace and quiet to the constant noise that usually dominated John’s life. Sometimes they took walks together, conversing of innocuous topics and never touching, and still John felt like the secret they were bearing was written all over them in vivid paint and wondered how not one person they passed by ever seemed to see it.

Currently he was watching Thomas in the bath, cleaning off the traces of their last tryst. He had freed his hair from its queue and looked about as relaxed as John had ever seen him, humming under his breath as he washed off the stickiness of lovemaking. That was another thing you had to get used to as an… intimate acquaintance to Thomas Jefferson: constant absent-minded singing. Never loud, never inappropriate, just quiet, incessant, low warbling. Just last week in a congress meeting, during an intense Adams vs. Dickinson stare-down, the only sound in the room had been Thomas humming. It had unnerved Dickinson and strengthened John’s resolve.

“You are staring,” Thomas said now. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the window and made his hair shine like polished copper. It fell in wavy strands down onto shoulders littered with freckles. John wanted to touch him there and count all the freckles on his body, but he knew it would be futile; they were everywhere, innumerable.

“How can I not look? You’re beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Thomas laughed.

“It wasn’t a joke.” John got up off the bed and stood by the tub, gazing down at his lover. He hadn’t even bothered to get dressed again. “I honestly can’t fathom what you want with me… obnoxious, aggressive, irritating, fat John Adams.”

“You seem to place more emphasis on one of these attributes than on the other three.” Thomas tilted back his head so that it came to rest on the rim of the tub to meet John’s eyes. “Why should I care that you are… on the stout side? It was your mind, your passion, that attracted me.”

“Is that so?”

“John, you must know I love you.” It was said in a kind of earnest wonder, as if Thomas really couldn’t fathom how John could not know this.

“Ah! Now I know it.” A part of him wanted to say it back. The rest of him still shied away from the implications of it. If he admitted that these feelings had a place in his life, things got immensely complicated. He’d shared a bed with this man for weeks now and still, he couldn’t quite stop hanging on to a shred of hope that he was not yet doomed. That they could still step away from this. When the declaration was finished. Then they could both take a trip home to their wives and put this madness fueled by frustration, prolonged solitude and the heatwave behind them.

If Thomas picked up on John not reciprocating, he didn’t say a word of it. “The water is icy,” John said, trailing a hand through the tub to distract from the topic. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I prefer it to be cold. It’s healthier.”

“Healthier? This is the most nonsensical thing I’ve witnessed since Franklin’s so-called _air baths_.”

“You mean the ones where he just walks about his house buck-naked?”

“Precisely. I assume the somewhat dubious health benefits are merely an excuse for Franklin to… well, to walk about his house buck-naked.”

“You might be on to something.” Laughing softly, Thomas dragged him down into a kiss.

“I’m coming in there,” John said, lowering himself into the tub.

Thomas put on a token protest, “Again? John, I’m exhausted… it’ll soil the water” but it was obvious from his tone and the gleam in his eyes that he was eager. His impossibly long limbs wrapped around John’s body like an affectionate octopus and gently nudged him where he needed to be. Straddling him, John didn’t even need to prep himself extensively, he was still loose and slick from before. They had long since discovered the joy of second and third rounds, and the oil that Thomas had purchased the week prior certainly helped.

John sank down on Thomas’s dick with a satisfied moan. More often than not their roles were reversed and it was Thomas who let himself be filled up by John, but today was one of the rare days where they had switched it around. John began to move, setting the pace, while Thomas clung to him for dear life, his blunt nails leaving little pink half-moons in John’s flesh. The water splashed around them as they moved, and Thomas was already making these little whimpers that indicated that overstimulation was driving him out of his mind. John rode him faster, harder, and every thrust of Thomas’s length hit that sweet spot inside him just right.

Then he heard, “John…ah…love…I’m about to…”

“Yes,” he gasped and gave his own mostly neglected erection a few deft strokes. It was all he needed to spill a smear of his release all over Thomas’s abdomen. Simultaneously, he ground down on Thomas’s dick one last time, taking it in to the hilt, which was enough for Thomas to come with a surprised little sound. Orgasm always seemed to overwhelm him.

When Thomas pulled out, his come leaked out of John’s hole after him. John had never felt this indecent in his life.

“It is as I said,” Thomas said, still slightly breathless. “I have cleaned up for nothing, and the water is now warm.”

They stayed in the lukewarm bath nonetheless, scrubbing each other clean. John started an attempt to count Thomas’s freckles, but there were simply too many and not even Thomas knew the location of all of them.

 

* * *

 

John stayed the night, and fell asleep to the sight of Thomas hunched over his portable desk, toying with his quill.

In the dead of night, he was awoken.

“John,” Thomas whispered. “John, wake up and look. I believe it’s finished.”

“What is finished?” John asked groggily.

“Why, the declaration, of course!” Thomas was waving a piece of paper under his nose. “Here, read it. Look at it.”

John read. He recognized phrases that had been written on his own skin and wondered if he would ever be able to look at this document without blushing. Still…

“We must show this to Franklin tomorrow. This is brilliant.”

“Thank you.” Thomas smiled gratefully at the praise, although his eyes were strangely sad. John didn’t like that look on him. He kissed him, and when Thomas reciprocated, his kiss was hard and urgent, no trace of his soft shyness left in it.

“Come,” John said and gripped Thomas’s hips. “Let’s celebrate.”

He took him right then and there and afterwards, Thomas complained that he now had to copy everything again because his draft had been crumpled up carelessly between them and the ink was all smeared. But the strange sadness had left him for the time being, or he kept it under lock.

 

* * *

 

Not only Franklin thought that editions to the document had to be made, but the entirety of congress shared his opinion. When the suggested changes got more and more ridiculous, John stood up to defend the declaration that had partially been written on his skin… since the writer of it wouldn’t.

John knew how prickly Jefferson had reacted whenever he had proposed changes to the declaration, knew that he hated having his work tampered with. Now that he had every single man in congress against him, Thomas shrunk from defending his writing to the overwhelming majority. At every new change, he withdrew a little more, his eyes growing duller as the hours passed. John felt angry at the man’s apathy, and at those who caused it, so he took up the sword in Jefferson’s stead.

When at last the meeting was adjourned without them having finished, Thomas caught him in the corridor.

“Mr. Adams,” he snapped, “a word.”

He led him none too gently by the wrist, back into the now empty hall. All their fellow congressmen were already on the way home.

Now that they were alone, Jefferson let his guard drop, showing his resignation.

“Stop it, John,” he said. “It’s my document. If I saw need to defend it, I could do so myself.”

“But you’re miserable.”

“That doesn’t matter. I did not write this for me, or you, or any one man, but for the American people! Now their representatives are wanting to make changes. I don’t like it, but we must resign ourselves to it.”

“Their suggestions are ridiculous!”

“Yes, and they’re concerned mostly with details. It’s not that important really. I will keep some copies of the original, if that helps you any.”

“You don’t _mean_ that…”

_“Mr. Adams.”_ Jefferson bowed and left.

He did raise his voice in defense of his declaration when John Dickinson suggested they should not call King George a tyrant, because apparently this was too awful even for him, but everything else he left to the rest of congress to decide. In the end, about a quarter of the paper and many things that had, in John’s opinion, made it great, were erased. He tried not to complain too much.

When the document was finally signed, the declaration committee and everyone who’d backed them hit the next tavern to celebrate. That night, John took Thomas home to his rooms and, drunk on rum and a hard-won victory, they made out and fell into his bed together. Thomas slipped out at dawn, leaving a short and cordial note for John saying that he had gone home.

He didn’t visit for the rest of the day.

John didn’t think too much of it. It was very likely that he was incapacitated from the effects of last night’s drinking. The best course of action was probably to let him rest.

Thomas didn’t visit on the next day either, or on the day after that.

Now John was starting to grow worried. Usually it was Jefferson who came to him. He tried to remember if anything had happened between them that would make Thomas want to stay away, but except for their little argument over the declaration, nothing came to mind. And that hadn’t even been a real argument, merely a difference in opinion, as it happened to everyone now and then. They couldn’t agree on _everything_ now. Granted, Thomas had been a little too formal then, but that had most likely been caused by their being in public, nothing else. And besides, he could just catch Thomas after the next congress session and ask him what was up. He would be there; he had never missed a meeting before.

Thomas decided to thwart John’s plans by being absent at the meeting.

So John found himself approaching the Virginia delegation, hoping he looked casual and unconcerned.

“I don’t see Mr. Jefferson here today,” he addressed them, apropos nothing. “He’s not usually absent from these meetings.”

“Mr. Jefferson is ill,” he was told. “A migraine headache. He gets them occasionally.”

“Well!” John said, digesting that information. “Let us hope for his speedy recovery.”

 

* * *

 

John was on his way to Thomas’s rooms.

He didn’t know if his illness was real or feigned in order to avoid him, but either way he had to see for himself. And no one had forbidden him from visiting Thomas. It was a free country (or at least it would be). So why was he nervous?

The first people he saw upon entering were two black men seated at the foot of the stairs leading up to Thomas’s apartment, talking quietly. John had met one of them before: Thomas’s slave. Jupiter, the man’s name was.

They had, in the beginning of their liaison, had a Conversation regarding slaves. They had agreed that it wasn’t John’s place to complain when he encountered them at Thomas’s apartment, but when Thomas visited John he had better come alone. Sometimes he did wonder how he could in good conscience share a bed with a slave owner… it was the ugly side of getting involved with the men from the South.

“Good day, sir,” he said, approaching the man.

Jupiter stood and inclined his head. “Mr. Adams.”

Yes, they had encountered each other before, a few times in situations very incriminating to John. According to Thomas, Jupiter could be trusted completely (the relationship of slave and owner was a strange, unnatural, convoluted thing).

“Do you happen to know if Thomas is upstairs?”

“Mr. Jefferson has instructed me to turn away all visitors.”

John cocked his head, thinking that over. “Well, would you be so kind as to go and ask him if he’s willing to make an exception for me?” He wasn’t in the habit of being rude to the enslaved. They had it bad enough. His harsher tones were reserved for their masters, normally. Thomas Jefferson was both the example of and the exception from the rule.

Eventually, he was allowed to pass. Halfway up the stairs, he started hearing music – someone was playing a sad melody on the violin. So Thomas was at home.

He gave the door a few brisk knocks. “Thomas, are you in there?”

The violin stopped and, seconds later, the door was opened.

Thomas looked the most unkempt John had ever seen him. He was wearing a large, horribly patterned robe and slippers, his hair was in disorder, and he evidently hadn’t shaved in several days; his jaw was covered in red-gold stubble. His greeting was a hoarse whisper.

“So it is you,” he said.

“Can I come in?”

“If you must. But do speak softly, your voice is hurting my head.”

John tried. “Do you often get migraines?”

“Not often. Just in the wake of… certain events.”

They went inside. Thomas reclined in his unholy spinning chair, clutching his temple. He deliberately swiveled the chair so that no direct sunlight could hit his face from the window.

“Has this been ailing you these past three days?” John asked.

“Only today.”

“Then I don’t understand why…”

“Why what, Mr. Adams?”

He hadn’t meant to finish his sentence, but now he felt he needed to. “So now I’m _Mr. Adams_ again? You’ve been avoiding me as of late, and I’d like to know why.”

“Avoiding you…?” Jefferson began, then sighed tiredly. “I suppose there’s no denying it. Yes, I have tried to stay out of your hair. The declaration is finished now, isn’t it…”

“So what, you have no more need for me?” John couldn’t help raising his voice. Had Jefferson used him? Had he been no more than a convenient remedy for boredom and writer’s block all along?

“Shh, shh, no, I assumed… I assumed the opposite was true.”

All the anger that had flared up in John’s gut just seconds ago abruptly turned to ice. He felt numb with the shock of it.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

Jefferson’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “You were humoring me, were you not? So that I would write your declaration. I know how important that was to you. I’m sure you never meant any harm to…”

“Now hold on…”

“ _Shush_ , Mr. Adams. I have written it now. It is signed. This is _finished_. Is it not.”

“No, wait. When did we ever say we’d stop as soon as the declaration is finished?”

“Was it not implied? I was assuming, since you so obviously do not return my… feelings, that you were merely… you know. Lying back and thinking of America. I am sad to see this come to an end, but I assure you, you will have no further trouble from me. My inclinations notwithstanding, I will not pursue you further. These last three days were spent coming to terms with that. Now I suppose everything is said. Can you please leave?”

“Do you _want_ this to end?”

“No. But for your sake, because I do love you, I will not insist on it continuing. I don’t know if I was making myself quite clear. It is hard to form a coherent thought. The headache.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” John muttered. “So this whole time you were thinking I’d, what, send you away as soon as this was over?”

“Mr. Adams, please, I…”

“No. Thomas. You will call me John, and you will kiss me right now.” John leaned in, carefully cupped Jefferson’s face, and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was a tremendous relief to be able to do that again, so he did it once more, and a third time for good measure.

“John…?”

So timid. John’s heart was heavy.

“I did this. I am not usually given to hesitation, but now… with my selfish doubts, I have hurt the best and greatest man I know.”

“I don’t think…”

“Thomas, no. I might not have said it then, but I knew inside myself that it was, and is, true. I love you, and I miss you.”

“You…?”

“Yes. I don’t know what this is that we are doing. And how we are going to continue doing it. We are both still married men, and I for one still love my wife.”

“So do I, of course.”

“But somehow I also love you. I am _in love_ with you.”

“John…” Thomas whispered. He sounded happy, but exhausted. He was swaying a little, looking considerably ill.

“We shall get you into bed and shut the blinds now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how the light hurts you.”

“I think I would feel better if I could just sleep a little,” Thomas suggested, clinging to John with almost childish affection.

“I will get you something that’ll make you sleep.”

“No, don’t leave me,” Thomas whined, clutching him tighter. “We can send Jupiter.”

“You know my stance on slave labor. I’m going myself. I won’t be long.”

Despite their – frankly ridiculous – height difference, John somehow managed to carry Thomas into bed. Then he went around the room shutting the blinds so that only some small rays of light filtered in. He took care to give Thomas another small kiss before he went out to acquire some laudanum.

It made Thomas amusingly loopy for about fifteen minutes before he eventually dozed off with his head in John’s lap.

 

* * *

 

They agreed that it was time to come clear to their wives.

They wrote a letter each, and didn’t show them to each other. Some things had to remain private.

Surprisingly it was Thomas who first got word back from Virginia.

“Martha is… more sad than angry,” he summarized, folding the letter and putting it away.

“Well, that sounds… promising. What has she written?”

“She believes I am trying to replace her.”

“Why is that?”

Thomas sighed. “What happened last year has put something of a dent in her self-confidence.”

“What happened last year?”

“We lost a child.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. He knew it happened all the time, infants were so fragile, and they died… a lot. It hadn’t happened to him and Abby, they had four strong, healthy children. Unthinkable, that it should happen to him…

“Martha is not… a strong woman,” Thomas went on. “She’s wonderful, just… she’s of a rather fragile disposition. Giving birth wears her out, and losing the little one broke her heart. Now she seems to think I blame her for it. That I’m seeking refuge in someone stronger. Namely, in another man. She cannot understand this.”

“Now what will you do?” John felt something close to fear. Perhaps, to console his wife, Thomas would now leave him.

“I will reply to her letter and try to reassure her. Do not worry, John. I’m not going anywhere.”

This day marked the beginning of a long and wearying exchange of letters between Thomas and his wife that dragged on and went nowhere. Having witnessed this, John was gripped by a considerable amount of inner turmoil when, finally, he held an answer from Abby in his hands.

With trembling fingers he opened the letter. It took him a minute to decipher the first sentence; Abby had grown much better at ciphers than he.

“My dearest friend,” it started, “I have perused your last letter with interest. In reaction, let me propose this: bring your Southern boy to Boston, and let me see what he is made of.”

John grinned.

He loved her so much.


	2. Paris, City of Good Lovin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jefferson was always a Boy to me" - John Adams, 1812, grossly taken out of context by me
> 
> You thought I'd stick to Jadams's POV for the whole fic? Nah. Today we plunge ourselves into The Jefferbrain  
> I probably messed up some history here, idk. I feel like I got a few details wrong? Always feel free to tell me if you find something.
> 
> TW for depression, suicidal thoughts, and semi-public sex. Unlikely combination, I know, but bear with me
> 
> Am I projecting my anxiety on Thomas Jefferson? the answer is heck yea. Do I think he had anxiety? I mean, maybe

In the end, Thomas did not indeed go to Boston. He first met Abigail Adams in France.

It had not been a good few years for him. John had been sent off to Paris with Franklin and Thomas had retired to his mountaintop and a family life that was still somewhat askew ever since he had confronted his wife with his liaison with John Adams. Sure, Martha had tried her best to put a happy face on it and to win back Thomas’s undivided attention now that John was an ocean away. But their marriage had periodically been disturbed by little tragedies. Thomas had nightmares that involved empty cradles and darkness.

Then, Martha’s already somewhat fragile health had begun failing.

He had panicked. He had promised her to do anything to make her well again. He had failed. She had died.

He had fallen into a deep, dark hole.

During her wake, countless of times he had felt like he would just collapse. Holding it together had been hard. He hadn’t even brought himself to attend the funeral. He couldn’t look at his daughters (the three that were left) without being reminded of their mother, and overwhelmed by grief over what all of them had lost. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything or anyone else. So he had locked himself in his study to be useless on his own.

Sleep had evaded him. His nights had been spent curled up in bed having crying fits, or pacing, restlessly, driven by his demons until he collapsed for a few hours. Even then he could not rest; he dreamed that Martha was, by some grace of heaven, restored to him, and he held her once again, or that she had never died. He had always woken, hopeless and alone, as the flighty happiness of his dreams shattered around him and made way to reality. He had dreaded sleeping, because this glimpse of an imaginary world where things were better had been worse than no hope at all.

He had eaten sporadically, and hadn’t talked to anyone at all. His study had become his cosmos, his universe, unthinkable that there should be anything outside these walls. In a violent fit he had destroyed all of his and Martha’s correspondence, and many of her belongings. He’d known that he’d been going a little bit insane. He had looked up at the ceiling one night and tried to remember the stars. He had prayed for someone to save him.

Eventually, his savior had wormed her way back into his life, stubborn in the face of closed doors and perpetual silence.

Martha the second did not look at all like Martha the first. Maybe that had helped. She had red hair and a gawky figure and eyes that couldn’t decide which color they wanted to be, and she was too tall for a girl her age. She was a young, female version of her father. He called her Patsy so that when he looked at her, no painful memories would resurface. His daughter didn’t deserve to be a source of pain.

She had gotten him to leave his room, to go on long walks and rides through the wilderness with her, and his friends and extended family had been relieved to hear that he was getting out more. Really, it had been an opportunity to get away from everyone so he could break down undisturbed and in peace, with only one persistent companion. Many times he had erupted into what they’d later call “violent fits of grief.” He had wanted to scream his anguish to the heavens, to uproot the nature that he’d once sought solace in, to demand that it was unfair that these green things around him were allowed to be when she who’d been his dearest companion was not. He’d wanted to call upon the almighty, drag him down from his heavenly perch and demand that justice be served. But as always he’d had no voice. Words would forever die in his mouth. Somehow the miniature version of him had understood.

After a few months of this, he had settled somewhat. He had grown calmer. He had started answering letters and talking to people other than his immediate family again. They had pronounced him healed of his grief but really he’d only tired himself out. He’d gotten up with the dawn each morning even though all he’d wanted was to remain in bed forever and he’d gone through his day because you had to keep going. He’d done this without any enthusiasm or joy. He’d yearned for nothing, loved nothing and wanted nothing but to join Martha wherever she now was. If it hadn’t been for the children, who needed to be cared for, he would’ve taken his life without hesitation.

At last a letter had come from congress. It had been a bit of a wake-up call. Outside, the revolution was still happening. He was still needed. They had proposed sending him to France to help out his colleagues in their quest for French aid for the war. France, where John Adams was. For the first time in months, Thomas had felt a spark of feelings in his chest.

 

* * *

 

He still had no liking for Europe and its monarchies, but France did spark his curiosity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt eager to do something since Martha’s passing, but as his carriage rolled through Paris, he looked out of the window and felt eager to explore the place.

He felt just as eager to see John again.

 

When he presented himself, the day after his arrival, at the hotel where John resided, he felt a wave of well-known shyness wash over him. It was… debatable whether this was better or worse than feeling nothing.

It had been so long. What were they now to each other?

What would he say to John? How would he address him? As _John_ or as _Mr. Adams_? Would John want to continue what they’d had in Philadelphia? It struck Thomas just how far he was from home. Philadelphia was an eternity away, Monticello no more than a distant thought.

He was shown into a room and suddenly there was John. He had a new wig. Otherwise, he had not changed at all.

Thomas bowed slightly, maintaining his distance.

“John,” he said simply, going out on a limb.

“Thomas,” John replied warmly, smiling and stepping closer. “It’s so good to see you here. They couldn’t have sent a better aid than you.”

Thomas couldn’t help the slightly goofy smile that spread over his features. Being praised by John was just so much more special than being praised by the sort of people who had praise for just about anything and anyone. Maybe everything would turn out alright.

Then a side door opened and a woman entered the room. She was tall, dark-haired, dressed more simply than the ladies of Paris. When she stood next to John, and Thomas met her eyes, he beheld an intellect equal to his own looking back at him.

John grasped her hand. “Meet my wife, Abigail.”

Thomas bowed again and stood with his arms crossed. “Mrs. Adams, it is a delight to finally meet you. I have heard so much of you.”

“Only the best, I hope,” she said. “Mr. Jefferson, is it?”

“Oh, yes. Yes to both.” Already Thomas felt like he was making a fool of himself. He could feel red ugly splotches forming on his cheeks as his blood rose. He hated it.

Of course he had heard only the best of Mrs. Adams. John had sung Abigail’s praises many a time in Philadelphia. He would wax lyrical about how much he missed her while lying in Thomas’s very arms. Jealousy had been a far removed concept then. They had both been married, to women who’d been far away, and they’d had an agreement. Now he was in uncharted territory, he was alone, and Abigail was _right there._

Now he could feel the green-eyed monster ghoulishly clutching at his chest.

“I cannot stay,” he said.  “I have yet to visit Dr. Franklin.”

He went through all pleasantries that were necessary for him to make his tactical retreat.

“You must dine with us,” Mrs. Adams said. “Dr. Franklin will be coming too, you can meet him then.”

He didn’t know why he agreed.

 

* * *

 

Now here they were, the American trinity plus Abigail Adams. She participated animatedly in the conversation between Franklin and her husband, while Thomas sat in his usual silence, picked at his food and very much wished to be elsewhere. Sure, the food looked excellent, but he had no appetite to appreciate it.

Silence was his chosen mode of being, but he couldn’t help but feel left out. He wanted to leave, to go home to be alone with his books. He was probably making everyone miserable by staying. One look at him would _have_ to bring a person down.

He sighed. He knew these thoughts were irrational. But sometimes his demons were loud.

“John, inquire after your friend,” he heard Mrs. Adams say. He realized the friend in question was him.

“Well, if he won’t do it, then I must,” she went on. “Mr. Jefferson, you’re pale and you have barely eaten. Are you feeling at all unwell?”

Caught red-handed, Thomas stared down at his plate. “I’m alright, ma’am. I assure you, I am always pale.”

“Not this particular shade,” John said suddenly. “Abby is, as always, right. Something is up.”

“John, please, let it be.”

Franklin was casting curious looks between the three of them.

“Well, we were discussing evening plans,” Abigail said, obviously to distract and give Thomas the space he had asked for. “John and I were thinking of attending the opera. I do so love music. Do you, Mr. Jefferson?”

Thomas nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“He plays the violin,” John threw in.

“Oh, does he?” A long and complicated look was passed between husband and wife. Thomas, who had always been bad at reading faces, had no idea what was going on. “Do you really?” Abigail said at last, turning back to him.

“I do really,” Thomas confirmed.

“Well that is wonderful. You must play for me someday. Meanwhile, why don’t you accompany us tonight? I am so very eager to get to know you better.”

Thomas started picking at his cravat. “Are you really?” He was repeating himself. There was nothing else he could say.

“But of course… I too have heard a lot of you. Maybe almost as much as you of me?” She threw him a sly look. Next to her, John loudly cleared his throat.

Franklin said nothing. He seemed very well entertained.

 

* * *

 

He went to the opera with them, and to the theater the next day, and the day after that they all met at a dinner with various French notables and foreign ambassadors. Franklin did most of the talking on occasions like this one, as John didn’t speak French and Thomas found he was pretty horrible at it. In this strange country, he had even less of a voice than at home.

Other than that, he spent time with the Adamses daily. He couldn’t bring himself to antagonize Abigail or feel any sort of rivalry towards her; she was just too lovely and intelligent (if slightly intimidating) and they had far too much in common. They both liked gardens and songbirds and music and books, when they saw a play together they both sighed wistfully at the same parts while John just looked puzzled. Slowly, Thomas felt the weight on his heart lifting. Theirs was a great friendship, and most of the time he was certain that this was enough for him. He could subsist on that. He didn’t need his relationship with any of the Adamses to be any more intimate. Just being friends with them, just being permitted to loiter in their presence and know that they were thinking of him with warmth or at least pity, was all he was going to get and it was good.

When he was alone, especially at night, it got harder to convince himself of that.

 

* * *

 

Then came the day when he, true to his word, played the violin for Mrs. Adams. Or at least attempted.

She was seated on his chaiselongue and ready to be serenaded when the first few notes wafted through the room. It was one of his favorite melodies, one he knew by heart. Still, it had been quite some time since he had last touched the violin. If he remembered correctly, Martha had still been alive.

Memories of his dearest companion overwhelmed him; of hours upon happy hours they’d spent making music together, she on the piano, he on the violin, accompanying her. She had always somehow been able to figure him out, even when he himself couldn’t, and music had been their secret language, that had connected them on a so much deeper and more profound level than mere speech. Never would he ever communicate with someone like that again. Never would he ever hear her play again, and follow her slender hands with his eyes, so sure on the pianoforte, so beautiful…

“Mr. Jefferson,” a voice said, jerking him back into the present. It was Abigail, who was looking at him with something like worry, or maybe consternation, Thomas didn’t know. He was really not good at reading facial expressions.

“Yes, ma’am, is something the matter?” he asked.

“Is something the… I mean, I don’t know, you stopped playing. And you’re crying.”

He set the violin down and touched his face. It was true, there was wetness there. “I wasn’t aware.”

“What brought this on?” Yes, that was certainly worry in her voice.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am. I should just…”

Not caring about how this looked, he got up, went to his bedroom and locked himself inside.

 

* * *

 

As he crawled into bed and buried his head under a pillow, he thought he could hear Abigail outside, knocking and trying to talk to him, and then later a flurry of several confused voices as she debated the situation with his slaves. Or maybe he was imagining it. He hoped he was imagining it. While on the one hand the thought of her trying to reach out to him was kind of nice, on the other hand he didn’t want to talk to her, or young James Hemings, or anyone. He had just made a fool of himself and now he just wanted to wallow for a little while.

At last it went quiet.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard someone more hammering than knocking on his door.

“Thomas? Thomas I know you’re in there!”

Oh sweet Jesus. It was John. Abigail had gotten John.

“Go away,” Thomas said.

“No. If you don’t open up this instant, I will go downstairs and personally steal the key to this room from your slave boy.”

“Why would you steal from James?”

“Just open the damn door.” John sounded unnerved.

“I will not.” Thomas hid under the pillow again, blocking out all noise. Surely this would end the discussion.

No ten minutes later he heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and soft footfalls closed in on his bed.

“I’m here now,” John said quietly. “Show yourself.”

Thomas emerged from his hiding place, blinking up at John, who sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You are a mess,” John chided softly, and he was right. Thomas was very much aware that his hair was in disorder and his eyes were puffy and red from crying and he was hiding in his bed while fully clothed. He hated how this looked. He hated himself. Why could he not be stronger than this?

“What happened?” John asked.

“How are you even here?”

“I persuaded young… James, was it? To lend me his keys. And I will think considerably less of you if you take this out on him later.”

“I won’t.” Thomas wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sighed. “I’m sorry for walking out on Mrs. Adams. She must be cross with me.”

“We’re both more worried about you really. And we would appreciate it if you talked to us. And told us what is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong. I just… I used to play this song for my wife. I was suddenly reminded of the state of solitude I’m in.”

“But you’re not alone. You will always have Abby and me.”

Thomas huffed unhappily. Two more tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped off his chin. “I will not have you in the way I desire. Not like before.”

“Oh, Thomas.” John softly wiped the tears off Thomas’s face with his thumb. “You could have had that instantly, if you had but asked. Now come here, you ridiculous man.”

To Thomas’s surprise, he was suddenly gathered up in John’s arms. His head came to rest on John’s shoulder. He had many questions, but for now it felt good to just be held.

“Abby and I discussed this,” John muttered above him. “We were thinking that we ought to give you space after what happened with your wife. Wait until you come around in your own time. Maybe we were mistaken. Maybe space was the opposite of what you needed.”

“I assumed that you wouldn’t want…”

“Why must you always assume things? For once can’t you just speak up for yourself? Why must you insist on making yourself unhappy with your perpetual hesitations?”

Thomas shrugged. He could not quite explain it himself. “It’s just who I am at this point.”

“Hmm. I am not looking to change you,” John said softly and cupped Thomas’s face. “I just wish to see you smile again.”

Thomas drew up the corners of his mouth. It felt awkward and pinched.

“No, you just look constipated. That won’t do. Here,” John said and kissed him. It was pure bliss.

“John,” Thomas whispered, breaking away. “I thought… our last meeting, before you went to France…”

 

_(“Virginia says nay, Virginia says nay,” Thomas muttered._

_“What are you mumbling, Mr. Jefferson?” Lee of the Virginia delegation asked, half-turning._

_“Nothing at all,” Thomas said, trying to look like **nothing at all** was bothering him. “Umm, can we vote no?”_

_“Why would we be opposed to sending Mr. Adams to France?”_

_“Why indeed,” Thomas said to himself._

_“You will make a fine diplomat,” he said later, when he was alone with John. “Dr. Franklin should appreciate your help.”_

_John grunted something. Thomas poured both of them a glass of wine. John ignored his, so, after a brief hesitation, Thomas drank both of them._

_“What will your wife say to this?”_

_“I expect her to hate it. As I hate it. And I’m sure you’re not happy either.”_

_“What I feel is unimportant. Your duty should be your priority.”_

_“But just think of it, we’ll never be able to meet up in Boston like we planned.”_

_“I shall certainly mourn the missed opportunity to go to **Boston, John**.”_

_“Yes, you probably weren’t looking forward to that, were you?” John stood behind him and he could feel his hand, at first on his shoulder, then sneaking higher and winding into his hair, the tips of John’s fingers lightly scratching his scalp in that special spot he loved to have touched._

_He jerked his head away. “Leave me be.”_

_“You’re hurt.”_

_“No, I don’t care what you do, leave me alone.”_

_“I am departing for Massachusetts in the morning,” John said. “And then immediately over the pond to Europe. I do not know when we shall meet again. You do not want to send me off like this, do you?”_

_Thomas turned and looked him in the face. “Very well then, have at me.”_

_But John only held him, gave him a kiss and left the room._

_When Thomas was alone again, he sat down at his desk, pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. His eyes roved aimlessly through the room and landed, at last, on his violin. But… no. He knew himself well enough. If he allowed himself to linger now, there would be no pulling himself out of the mire for weeks. He had work to do. He disregarded the violin and grabbed a quill and some paper instead._

_“Notes on the State of Virginia,” he scribbled.)_

“Ah, yes, you were undoubtedly harsh. But that was not our _last_ last meeting, was it?”

 

Yes, Thomas recalled, their real last meeting had been the next morning. _(A pale, cold morning it was, the sort of morning every sensible person would very much want to spend in bed. Thomas shivered and felt like the glaring white sky was somehow mocking him personally. It was the color of toothaches, bad hangovers and endings._

_He found John at the stables next to his building, saddling his horse for the journey home. He was dressed in his woolen greatcoat that made him look like a short, stout teapot packed up in a gray tea cozy. Seconds later, Thomas had his fists clenched into that very coat, never wanting to let go._

_“Don’t leave,” he pleaded. “Let someone else do it.”_

_John softly, very softly removed his hands from his coat. “There is no one else, my dear, we both know it. You were present when we voted.”_

_“But…!” He almost stomped his foot like a petulant child._

_“Shh. Do not worry. We’ll meet again, and in the meantime, you’ll do fine here without me. Your political career is only just budding.”_

_“I don’t want it.”_

_“Now, you can’t say that.”_

_“I don’t want a role in politics. It is draining and I have no mind for it.”_

_“You cannot think of retiring, we are in the midst of revolution! You have already assumed your position when you wrote that declaration, now you must stay in it. You have a duty to your country, as do I.”_

_John looked tired, and not just because it was early. He was going off to break the news to his wife, who would surely also resist, and then he would start his long and perilous journey to France. Thomas should really not be bothering him now._

_“Go then, and give my compliments to your wife. Maybe I should write her. We will be sharing the sorrow of your absence.”_

_“Maybe you should.” John gave him a quick hug, the only intimacy they could allow themselves in a place where someone could walk in at any moment. “Be steadfast, remember to be good and do good,” he said, as if he was advising one of his children. Thomas didn’t have it in him to protest such treatment._

_“Godspeed,” he simply replied. “Don’t let the French get to you. Do your country proud.”_

_“And you.” John led his horse out of the stables. Then he was gone. Thomas wrapped his arms around himself. He felt very cold.)_

“We did part on uncertain terms.”

“There is no uncertainty about what you mean to me.” John kissed him again, and one kiss became two, three, four kisses, until they lost track of how long exactly they’d been snogging. Their arms wrapped around each other and John’s hand unerringly found its way into Thomas’s hair, tugging lightly at his queue, making him moan. John’s warmth was everywhere, and his touches healed him, pieced him back together. His breeches were growing tighter at an alarming speed. A little closeness, a loving embrace, this was all it took to set him off these days.

“John,” he gasped.

“Mmh, yes, let’s have a real reunion, shall we?” John now focused on opening Thomas’s pants. “You know, when I reunited with Abby a short while ago, it was much the same. There was awkward distance and then there were tears. I have given the both of you a lot of grief.”

“You have only – ah – done your duty,” Thomas said, his breath hitching as John slid his hand inside his breeches and began to stroke him to full hardness. “And I’m aware of my, o-of my place, in the grand scheme of…things.”

“Your place? You will succeed Dr. Franklin as ambassador to France,” John said calmly as he _didn’t stop stroking_ Thomas’s cock.

“No, I mean – will you be still a _second_ – I mean I know I have no claims to make in this. ’76 was a fling. I will gladly accept having to stand to the side of your duty to our United States,” – god, it still felt so strange and new on the tongue, _United States_ – “and your wife.”

“Now who is showing a disconcerting lack of faith in himself, Mr. J? Thomas, you must know that… Abigail and you both mean the world to me… you are crying again.”

“No,” Thomas claimed even as his vision swam.

“Oh, for sure. Should I remove my hand?”

“No, _no_.”

Thomas was feeling everything at once as John took up his pace again. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or happy or ecstatic. He was dimly aware that he might still be crying. But it became as secondary as every other thought in his head to John’s touch. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten any of the knowledge he had acquired in ’76. He still recalled how Thomas liked to be touched. All of three minutes later and he was writhing like a snake that had just been tread on, almost on the brink. He could see completion on the horizon, he could…

“Tom, I was wondering if… _oh_.”

The door had opened and in had come Benjamin Franklin, only to come to an abrupt halt. He observed what had to be the strangest of sights: the both of them on the bed, Thomas probably still weeping with John’s hand down his pants.

“We might, perhaps, in some manner or form, be able to explain this,” John said after an uncomfortable little silence.

“Well then you’d better think fast,” Franklin said happily, leaning on his cane.

“You see, we…umm…”

“Forgot to lock the door?” Franklin grinned. “Look, I don’t really care what it is you are doing here. Paris is a magnificently liberal place, is it not? Maybe just right for this sort of thing. Do not worry about me telling anyone. In fact, I’ve more than suspected this.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. Thomas just sat there, having no idea what to say.

“Oh, I was just coming here to tell Thomas to remove his head from his rear, stop pining and talk to you. It seems you’ve sorted that out by yourselves after all. So apparently my presence here is unnecessary. I take my leave, gentlemen, _so sorry_ for intruding.”

Still grinning, he bowed and left.

John looked at Thomas.

Thomas looked at John.

“So, that was… something.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, do we continue where we left off or…?”

Thomas shifted on the bed, scrunching up his face in displeasure. “Now I can’t anymore. I’m sorry. There’s just something about Dr. Franklin that instantly kills the mood.”

“Hmm. Understandable.”

“Would you mind just staying here for a while?” Thomas curled up by John’s side, making himself as small as possible to accommodate John and show what he needed. He was rewarded by John wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close.

“I don’t mind at all. Would you prefer conversation or silence?”

“Whatever suits you best.”

“I will talk, then. Are you going to see the ballet with Abby and I later…?”

 

* * *

 

That evening, as Thomas sat in their box in the theatre and watched the dancers on the stage below, he felt acutely aware of the Adamses by his side. Abigail was watching the ballet with rapt attention, John shifted in his seat every other minute.

“What do you think of this, Mr. Jefferson?” Abigail suddenly whispered, turning her head to look at him.

“I think it’s quite a… captivating spectacle.” Down below a slight young dancer was picked up by the waist and spun slowly, majestically, across the stage. Thomas could barely take his eyes off their entwined figures, their gracefully stretched limbs. But in the periphery, he caught the Adamses exchanging a glance.

“Thomas, could you shift a little?” he heard John say quietly.

Puzzled, he complied. Suddenly and inexplicably, he found himself seated in John’s lap. Just as quickly, Abigail knelt down between his legs and Thomas felt her hand in the dark, searching for the buttons to open his pants.

“Wait, wait. We are in public!” Thomas objected as loudly as he dared.

“Everyone’s eyes are transfixed upon the stage,” John said. “And it’s dark in here.”

“Have you had this in mind all along when you rented the box?” Thomas hissed. As he squirmed a little in John’s lap, he felt something hard poking his lower back. Yes, John had anticipated this, enough to get excited.

“Mercy, I’ve just bought these breeches!” It was his last line of defense. Yes, this appeared indecent, but otherwise he didn’t know why he was even objecting anymore. The combination of the thrill of this illicit encounter, John’s obvious desire for him, and Abby’s swift hand was making things happen in his nether regions, too. Decency be damned, it felt good to be wanted.

“We’ll make sure you won’t soil your breeches,” Abby said and he could hear the mirth in her voice. Before he could ask how they planned on ensuring that, she answered his question by taking his dick in her hand and planting a lingering kiss onto it.

“Oh!” he breathed, always moaning out loud, but John’s hand came up from behind and clapped over his mouth.

“Shh,” he ordered softly. His still-clothed cock was insistently poking Thomas’s backside, but there was nothing they could do about that in their current position. Or so Thomas thought.

“You have it, dear?” John whispered to his wife. Abigail withdrew to grab her purse and fish around in it until she produced a small bottle from its depths. In the gloom, Thomas couldn’t see what was inside, but going from what they were doing, it could really only be one thing.

_They want to do **this**? Here? _ he thought, but couldn’t voice his doubts over the hand still covering his mouth.

“I did promise you a real reunion, didn’t I?” John said and, as if he’d read his thoughts, added, “You can shake your head if you don’t want this.”

Thomas couldn’t reply, so he sucked John’s fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them.

“Good,” John breathed. “You’re being so good. Up,” he commanded, gripping Thomas’s waist with his free hand.

Thomas raised his hips, putting his weight on his arms as he was gripping the armrests of John’s seat. It was messy and awkward and his arms started trembling almost immediately from the strain of holding himself up in this precarious position. Abby tried to help stabilize them, but she had enough to do with reaching around him and handing her husband the bottle and then pulling his pants down completely as John, judging by the noises Thomas heard behind him, opened the bottle with his teeth and slicked up his one free hand.

Soon enough Thomas felt a slick digit prodding at his entrance. He was far too ready to allow it inside. He hadn’t done this in a long time, not even on his own, but he found his body remembered just fine. One finger quickly became two, and Thomas was panting harshly around the fingers in his mouth, his lips forming little praises against John’s palm, hoping that he could read them.

Abigail continued her ministrations below, her tongue incredibly skilled, although she did gag a little when attempting to take in his full length. It would never have occurred to Thomas to find anything lacking about John Adams, but he couldn’t help but feel a little smug at the thought that Abby apparently wasn’t quite used to the size.

Nonetheless, he laid a hand on her head and nudged her gently, signing for her to back off. He was touch-starved, and their combined attentions had him struggle to not blow his load immediately. He tried to control himself, knowing that John had to be taken care of, and that the best was yet to come.

“Are you ready?” John whispered.

Thomas nodded, nibbling lightly at John’s fingers. He raised his hips and arched his back to show John just how eager he was. And he was very eager. After minutes that felt like hours of having his prostate teased at, he was dying for it.

John withdrew his fingers, making Thomas whine at the loss, which luckily no one heard because John’s other hand remained firmly in place. There was some fumbling in the dark, all trying to make as little noise as possible, but at last John pulled his cock out and, after coating it in a generous helping of oil, led it up to Thomas’s hole and, as carefully as the situation permitted, pushed in.

Thomas’s nibbling at John’s fingers turned into outright biting as so many sensations rushed through him at once. At first the sear was horrible, and he felt tears spring to his eyes, but there was the pleasure too. Slowly, the burning abated, and he could trust himself with shifting a little, helping John to ease his way in. When John had sunk all the way down, he couldn’t help but muffle a deeply satisfied moan by leaning forward and burying his face in Thomas’s hair. Thomas smiled as they remained perfectly still for a moment. He was in a public place with a dick in his ass and content with the world.

Then Abigail, who had been waiting patiently for them to sort themselves out, returned to what she had been doing. Thomas’s cock was painfully hard and swollen now and it strained towards her to the point where he had to restrain himself to not buck into her mouth. John had more freedom in the movement of his hips and he rutted into Thomas in a way that reduced him to a puddle, pinned helplessly between the two people he loved most.

In these circumstances, no one lasted very long. Thomas regretted not having a way to warn Abby when he came, but she didn’t seem to mind. She swallowed every last drop, indeed making sure not one of them got onto his breeches, and when he was happily depleted, John had him pull away and spilled his own seed into his handkerchief in the interest of cleanliness.

“We should remember the lady,” Thomas suggested after they’d caught their breath.

Abigail, the only one of the trio not yet satisfied, simply slid back into her seat. “I can wait until we get home,” she muttered. “Now watch the show, boys.”

They turned their eyes again to the stage where, apparently, unheeded by them, a lot more ballet had been happening.

 

* * *

 

The Adamses took Thomas along to their place, although he was still (and would probably never quite stop being) a little worried that he was imposing himself on them. He liked to think that he earned his keep when he and John lavished their attentions upon Abigail, using their fingers and tongues to bring her to orgasm. She tasted different than Martha had, but it was a good different, one he could get used to.

Afterwards all three of them, utterly spent, collapsed on the bed together, and really after the day he’d had, Thomas couldn’t be blamed for nodding off.

 

* * *

 

He woke up several hours later to an empty bed and the quiet voices of the Adamses conversing somewhere within the room. He didn’t make his presence known, just kept his eyes closed and listened.

“I remember the declaration your boy had written,” he heard Abigail say. “It was really very good. I must admit I’d thought it was entirely yours at first. You had no hand in it at all?”

“None,” John replied, sounding amused. “I helped with the revisions, but everything else is purely Tom. I was more of… well, if there were something like a muse of political writing, I suppose that was my role.”

Thomas grinned, turning his face into the pillow so they would not see he was awake. It was kind of fun, listening to being talked about.

“Well, he sure has charmed me,” Abby conceded. “I see now what you see in him. There is… something about him, even for all his sadness.”

“Well, after the horrible business with his wife…”

“Shh, John. Quietly. You would not want to wake your impudent youth, would you.”

“Youth? We are but eight years apart.”

“Is that so? He seems young to me.” Thomas felt a hand stroking his hair. He could not determine whether it belonged to John or Abigail. He kept his eyes firmly shut.

“He’s curled it,” John said with a bit of strange dismay to his voice. “He hadn’t before. And what’s with all these fancy new breeches and waistcoats? Are we all trying to look more French now?”

“The fashions here are certainly more extravagant than at home.”

“We should not have to bend ourselves for any foreign power. To the French, we will always appear poor imitations of them. We should all of us take care to not have our heads turned around by the splendors of Europe.”

“As you say, John,” Abigail said somewhat vaguely diplomatic. “Dr. Franklin seems to have no problem staying true to himself.”

“Franklin is of a kind. He’s used to all this.” The conversation turned to other topics. Thomas didn’t bother listening so carefully. He was in John’s bed, where everything around him smelled like John, with a hint of Abby’s perfume thrown in. He curled up under the blanket someone had spread over him and inhaled deeply.

 

* * *

 

“Come here, boy,” Abby said, smiling.

“Ma’am,” Thomas whispered and took his place between her legs.

They had established these rules: Abby was always in charge. Thomas was allowed to do whatever his imagination supplied with his hands and his mouth, if it had been properly negotiated beforehand. He was not allowed to enter her with his cock, ever. Abigail was still very far from incapable of bearing children, and if it happened again, the child had better not resemble anyone but John, or else there would be scandal.

She was allowed to call him _boy_ and other little endearments, provided she never took it to a point where he could for a moment believe that there was real subjugation there. He hated being thought of as the weakest link in the chain, the impostor, the plaything. So John and Abigail took care to assure him that he was neither of these things. That he was valued. That his contribution, not only in the bedroom but also in politics, was important.

They sat in gardens and salons and on cute picnic blankets and chit-chatted among each other or with the French, mingling and slowly but surely seeing trade deals between their two nations established. They cavorted (although John would never call it that) through the city and its surroundings, discovering its many wonders. They dined in manor houses that were more like palaces on the regular. When doing neither of these things, they made love. It was a beautiful time for Thomas, maybe the best he’d ever had.

Then a letter came from home. And when a sudden burst of darkness engulfed him again at the news that his tiny daughter, the youngest of three lone survivors, had succumbed to the whooping cough, Abigail stayed by his side as long as his grief lasted, with John always at close call.

 

* * *

 

Like all good things, their time together eventually had to come to an end. They were surrounded by people when John read the missive that said congress had appointed him ambassador to England, so Thomas only smiled and congratulated.

“London is not too far from Paris,” commented Abby, scoping out the mood. “I will consider you my neighbor. We will visit each other lots.”

Between that moment and their departure, they asked him over and over if he would be alright. He always told them he’d miss them, but yes, he would be fine. He had let John leave him on uncertain terms once before. He was none too eager to do it again. They parted with the promise that they’d keep in touch, and find ways to continue what they had.

 

Of course Thomas found himself saddened by his sudden loneliness. But he was also beginning to realize that if he spent all his time grieving whenever someone left his life, he would be doing little else. And John and Abby weren’t gone forever. They would, someday, meet again, and in the meantime they’d write letters. Maybe it was time to reign in all this childish pining.

After all, he had the entirety of Paris to distract him.

Surely something would come up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, Ugly Shit is about to happen with him  
> And it really only did happen after the Adamses had left France. I know that bc Sally Hemings, when she came over, in fact did a detour over London and met Abigail and John. I hope they treated her well fOR A CHANGE  
> Listen, I feel like I wrote a lot of words but still failed to convey the mood of this. Listen to "Fourth of July" by Fall Out Boy or "Our Last Summer" by ABBA to remedy that


	3. Thomas Finds His Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prelude to an utter devastation
> 
> i left out A LOT of history that happened bc it was simply getting too long. i haven't even gone into detail with all this shit regarding the french. also i can't believe i now legitimately wrote abt the absence of butt freckles on the dead former president of a country in which i do not live. greetings from germany!!
> 
> some undernegotiation, a spanking, thomas being thomas, gratuitous hamilton

Eventually John and Abigail felt that it was high time to return to America and to their children. It was wonderful to see the family reunited. Also, John couldn’t help but think that he’d missed out on enough nation-building already. The constitution had been written, debated and ratified without him there. It was a shame really. So for the first presidential election, he intended to be present.

 (When asked to run, he glanced at Abby, half suspecting her to start laughing upon seeing that he was even considering it. “Must be at least vice-president,” she had said, completely serious.)

And vice-president he became.

Appreciative of the honor at first, he soon found that the job was mindless drudgery. Presiding over the senate was a thankless task, and the senate members were men he didn’t know and who didn’t know him and didn’t value his input. But at least President Washington had told him that, as he assembled his cabinet, he wanted Thomas Jefferson there as his Secretary of State. John greatly anticipated Thomas coming home; if he’d known the exact date of his arrival he would have gotten himself a calendar and ticked off the days like a silly, pining girl. Letters took a long, long time to pass over the ocean, so John barely knew what Thomas was up to in France. He missed talking to him directly, and as accounts of the French revolution got more and more violent, he worried also. Placing his darling Thomas, mild and soft-spoken, whom he still occasionally thought of as His Boy, in the midst of a bloody uprising could only end in disaster.

So he was very glad when Thomas was restored to them safely, having narrowly evaded the storm on the Bastille, not a single scratch on him. John met him again in the president’s rooms, where Washington had called a meeting to Welcome Mr. Jefferson Home.

He didn’t like that very much. He would have liked his first meeting with Thomas on their free American soil to occur in private. Certainly not in front of Washington and The Source Of All His Misery Alexander Hamilton.

John came in a bit late, too, so when he entered the conference, Thomas was already seated and chatting with none other than the Source Of All John’s Misery. But today, John could almost ignore Hamilton for the sheer presence of the second sun raising in the sky in Thomas Jefferson who was finally home.

Middle age had begun to leave traces on Thomas, not entirely in a negative way. The way he sat there sipping his wine, listening to Hamilton go on about his pet topic of debt assumption, he looked less awkward and lanky than John remembered him being. The slightly more pronounced lines on his face only showed that he had lived and laughed a little more since John had last seen him. When Thomas noticed him standing in the doorway and gave him a wide grin, he was the fairest creature in all the world. John would have liked to draw him up and in for a kiss this instant, but of course he couldn’t. He just smiled in return and muttered a greeting as he slid into a chair.

Hamilton barely gave him a nod and turned back to Thomas immediately, probably hoping to convince him of his project. Thomas’s expression went from politely puzzled to outright skeptical the longer Hamilton talked.

“Alright then, Mr. Hamilton, so the union assumes state debts and… that is good how?”

Ah. John recognized this. Hamilton would now start ranting and Thomas would try to throw something in only to have Hamilton interrupt. Thomas would then be scared into backing down and John would clear his throat and make his argument for him. His eyes were already trained on Thomas’s face, watching for the subtle signs of resignation.

“Mr. Jefferson, you _must_ simply see that in order to establish national credit…”

Thomas’s eyes were already getting all wide and squirrely. This had gone on far too long. John cleared his throat.

“I think what Mr. Jefferson was trying to say…”

“What I was trying to say is that Mr. Hamilton seems to be operating under the assumption that the Southern states will gladly bear the brunt of the North’s indebtedness?” Thomas cut in without stammering _even once_. “I am not well-versed in the intricacies of finance, but to me this seems like a scheme to move our money to where it suits Mr. Hamilton best.”

“ _Actually_ , _sir_ …”

John could but hope he wasn’t too obviously gaping as Thomas and Hamilton zeroed in on each other.

“Gentlemen, please.” That was president Washington’s voice. The president chose to quickly diffuse the situation by raising his glass. “A toast. To welcome Mr. Jefferson home.”

All but Thomas rose and drank to his health. John expected this to be mortifyingly uncomfortable for Thomas, but he merely smiled, nodding his thanks.

“Now, there are cabinet matters I’d like to discuss,” Washington said. This was John’s cue to please leave. He still couldn’t help but feel immensely bitter at that. Thomas watched him go with raised eyebrows. They hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to each other for the entirety of the gathering.

 

* * *

 

It was a little over two hours later when John heard knocking on his door. When he went to open up, there was Thomas, grinning at him.

“I walked all the way here,” he said with something like pride.

“It is raining.”

“I barely noticed.” Thomas pushed his dripping hair out of his face, leaned forward and downward and captured John’s lips in a kiss right there in the doorway.

“Wait, _wait_ ,” John said, breaking away forcefully and slamming the door shut. “In the middle of the doorway? In broad daylight?! You, sir, are being reckless!”

“I just missed you so,” Thomas said, still with a silly smile on his face. He leaned in again, bringing their mouths close.

“And I you,” John replied and allowed himself to be backed against the wall and kissed. In the past, he had always been the one to take initiative, so this was new and exciting.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes, hmm?” he muttered when his mouth was available for speaking again.

“Oh _yes_ , please,” Thomas said gleefully. Maybe he had walked here in the rain with intent after all. “Where’s the missus?” he asked.

“She’s in Peacefield, tending to the farm. She’ll join us shortly.”

“Very good. I’ve been missing her too.”

“And we you. I’ve even missed your violin.” John laughed.

“Oh, I don’t play anymore.”

_“What?”_ It was like Thomas saying he had decided to randomly hack his arm off.

“Yes, unfortunately I managed to break my wrist in France. It seems the fracture healed unevenly. I have regained my ability to write, but taking up the bow is too painful.”

“How on earth did you break your wrist?”

“It was a moment of extreme folly. Let’s not talk of it.” Thomas began to open the buttons of John’s vest. “See, I can still undress you with these hands.”

“And that is all that matters, huh.” John laughed and helped Thomas to remove his wet coat.

Thomas hummed in agreement. “Now, _what_ is the _deal_ with this Hamilton person? Where did he come from?”

“An island in the West Indies, apparently. He served under our esteemed president in the war and now he’s… here.”

“He’s got some _strange_ ideas.”

“That’s true. But must we talk about Hamilton right now? It’s not a very… alluring topic to discuss.”

“I understand. There’s just so much I missed.”

“I know how you feel.”

They had finished undressing while they talked, and now Thomas swiftly stepped out of his breeches and left them on the floor as he and John embraced, finally skin to skin.

They went down on John’s bed, John first, then Thomas. After a while they noticed that none of them had made a move to continue: they were just lying there in each other’s arms, giving each other goofy smiles.

“Well!” Thomas huffed a little laugh. “Is that all you want to see done today? Maybe pending old age is mellowing you out.”

“Hah! I’ll have you know, sir, I am not yet old. I still have my virility.”

“I’m sure of it. Speaking of, there is something I’ve seen done in Paris that I am eager to try on you.”

“Oh dear,” said John, recalling some of the more sordid things they had both witnessed in Paris.

“Hmm. Have you bathed today?”

“I certainly have.” He wouldn’t admit that, but he had spent over an hour in the bathtub earlier, vigorously scrubbing every inch of his person in anticipation of something like this happening. He could certainly not give Thomas anything particularly handsome to look at, even less so now than when their relations had started, but at least he was tidy. He had that speaking for him.

“Perfect. Then what I have in mind will work out.” Thomas gently beckoned him to flip over. “You are so reliable, John,” he purred in between kissing his way down John’s body. “That is why I love you.”

“Really? That is it?”

“That and your extremely handsome physique, of course.”

“Now you’re just having a little joke at my expense, my dear.”

“No, not at all! Ah, John, I wish you could see what I see when I look upon you.”

“So what is it you see?”

“The most beautiful man I know: a man worthy of reverence and respect and admiration and praise.”

“I beg of you, Thomas, stop being silly.”

“I’m not. Are you so used to being unpopular that you cannot accept a compliment when it is given?”

“Are _you_ telling me…?”

“Shh. This is a pointless discussion. I will put my tongue to better use.” John couldn’t see what Thomas was doing behind his back, but suddenly he felt him, sucking a hickey on his shoulder, licking a path down his spine, planting a kiss to his tailbone and then…

“ _What_ are you _doing_?”

Thomas withdrew from where he had teasingly flicked his tongue at John’s hole. “Is this not to your liking?”

“It’s… very strange. But… continue.”

Thomas went on to lavish attentions upon John’s hole, kissing, licking and sucking at it. Slowly, very slowly, much more slowly than if Thomas had just used his fingers, John felt the ring of muscles loosening. Immediately, Thomas’s tongue slipped inside.

In theory, John thought, this was absurd. There was a _man_ with his _tongue_ up John’s _ass_. He would have taken a moment to lay back and ponder all the life choices that had led him up to this here moment, if he weren’t so preoccupied with clutching at the bedsheets and panting and cursing because _damn_ , this felt _good_. He rocked back, wanting more, wanting Thomas’s tongue in deeper, and the choked little sound Thomas made drove him positively mad.

Thomas’s hands clung to John’s thighs for leverage, but now one of them meandered upwards and found his dick. John moaned, captured between Thomas’s mouth and his hand, almost helpless and senseless with pleasure. Thomas did nothing fast or hard, he just teased and teased and endlessly teased until John felt like he had to burst. Again he swore profusely, ordering Thomas (not begging, never begging) to finish it already, to give him more, _more, c’mon_. Before he was reduced to pleading, he reached down, slapped Thomas’s hand away and gave himself a few rough strokes, just what he had needed to come all over the sheets. Thomas only withdrew his mouth when John had finished riding it out.

When he came back down to earth, he saw that Thomas was watching him with a smile while lazily pulling on his own, very erect cock. It was already leaking precome just from his slow, languid touches.

“Let me assist you with that,” John said as soon as he regained his ability to speak.

“Pray don’t worry about it,” Thomas muttered, looking at John with half-lidded eyes. His breath hitched when he did that twisty thing with his wrist on the upstroke that John knew he liked. Even though he had only just climaxed seconds ago, John felt his dick twitch again, a weak signal of “I would respond if I physically could.”

“Go faster,” he instructed. Thomas shot him a strange look, but then reclined on the bed and complied. “And do that thing with your wrist again.”

He gave Thomas precise instructions on what to do and delighted when Thomas obeyed every single one. After he’d climaxed, John kissed him and told him how good he’d been, and Thomas smiled his genuine smile at the praise. In that moment, everything was right with the world.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Hamilton, I _refuse_ to have our Southern farmers, honest men who earn their daily wages by the work of their own hands, be held hostage by _banks_ …”

John had never, _never_ heard Thomas yell. He was not yelling now, it was just something he did not do, but his voice was growing steadily louder and clearer. “Our revolutionary ideals…”

“Oh, does Mr. Jefferson believe me ignorant of our _revolutionary ideals_ , just because I did not spend the duration of the war here in Philadelphia showing off my political prowess, squabbling over _declarations_ , but, well, indeed _fighting_ the war…?”

“Mr. Hamilton, you are digressing from the point…”

This partaking in open confrontation was a new thing for Thomas, John thought as he paced in front of the door. It was good that he was finally getting out on the debate floor, but maybe unfair that his first opponent had to be Hamilton, who was literally always ready to attack.

John had no place in cabinet meetings, and he knew that people like Hamilton liked to rub that in his face. If Hamilton were to step outside now and see John blatantly eavesdropping a debate he wasn’t allowed in, he would certainly gloat, and John would be humiliated. But it was a risk worth taking for fist-hand information untarnished by biased accounts from others. And pretty much everyone in that chamber was biased, except maybe for the president himself, and John would rather hack his own foot off with a woodchopping axe than beg Washington for intel.

It wasn’t like John was not used to humiliation.

“Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Hamilton, _you will cease_ ,” Washington’s voice suddenly filtered through the wall, interrupting what had quickly become a heated discourse. “This meeting stands adjourned, we will reconvene when you have regained your senses!”

The door blew open with a force as the president stormed out, almost in a huff. His stoic composure that had lasted throughout the war was fraying at the seams. He didn’t even inquire as to why John was here, merely nodded at him and muttered a distracted greeting as he went past. He was followed by the rest of the cabinet in a rather more settled manner.

“Gentlemen,” the president snapped. “I suggest you take a little walk to cool your heads. And if Mr. Jefferson would take his incessant attacks of Mr. Hamilton’s person to a more private location, that would be appreciated. They’re disruptive of business.”

Thomas bowed in acknowledgement, but there was a hint of a sneer on his face. It concerned John how natural sneering seemed to come to Thomas’s face these days.

Washington took his leave, probably to sulk in his office, leaving his cabinet in an awkward position. Before John could remove himself from the scene, Hamilton had taken notice of him and immediately zeroed in.

“Well, look at that. Mr. Adams is here. I didn’t see you in the corner there, Mr. Vice-President.”

“Oh! John!” That was Thomas, having also turned around at Hamilton’s words. If anything, he just sounded surprised. Hamilton’s tone, meanwhile, was almost syrupy.

“Thomas. Mr. Hamilton,” John said with a quick nod to both.

“Mr. Adams, what a surprise to see you here… outside of the cabinet chamber… during a debate… which your office doesn’t allow you to attend,” Hamilton drawled.

“What are you implying, sir? I was merely on my way outside,” John blatantly lied.

“And your business within this building was…?”

“What is this, sir? An interrogation? My business is my own.” It wasn’t even remotely a good explanation for his being here. Hamilton was obviously not buying it, but maybe there would be a sliver of a suspicion left in the little bastard’s mind that maybe John did have business here that he didn’t know about. These days, that was already a win.

“Oh do excuse my asking so blatantly,” Hamilton said. “Of course your business is… your own.”

John took his leave. He wasn’t even out the front door when he heard the sound of Thomas’s long strides catching up with him.

“John,” he exclaimed. “Seeing you here is a breath of fresh air. How could you leave me alone with _them_?”

“Thomas, don’t be childish. You’re the Secretary of State,” John chastised. They linked arms as they stepped out on the sidewalk. No one thought anything of it. They were old friends taking a walk together. Nothing untoward was occurring. “And you know full well that I have no choice in the matter.”

“Ah yes, it is a shame. To see your talents wasted in that useless office…”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Although the… federalist party is becoming a little monarchical for my tastes.”

“Come now, Thomas, we are merely in favor of a strong central government. You must know that the only one federalist with monarchist ambitions is that slimy little brat Hamilton.”

“Hamilton? He is perhaps the most annoying person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. Have you seen how he is trying to manipulate the president?”

“Now, now, I’m sure no one can easily manipulate George Washington.”

“I fear the influence Hamilton has with him. If you had been present in the debate earlier, you would have seen it, I am sure.”

“Well, I was not present. The cabinet is entirely your arena. Come home with me.”

“I need to catch up on correspondence… Mr. Madison wants me to revise a draft of…”

“Mr. Madison’s tiny hands are remarkably present in your writing these days. Please come. Abby has arrived yesterday and she’s very much looking forward to seeing you again…”

Thomas perked up noticeably at the mention of Abigail. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Mr. Madison can wait.”

 

* * *

 

Abigail looked up from her book when the two of them entered the parlor, then immediately got up to hug Thomas.

“Mr. Secretary of State,” she greeted, smiling at him.

“Mrs. Vice-President,” Thomas replied. “It’s been a while since we looked at English gardens together.”

Abby nodded. “You’re looking well, Thomas.”

“I am not well. I am a wreck. Mr. Hamilton is out to rob me of my last nerve, ma’am.”

“He has been regaling me with tales of his struggles with Hamilton the whole way here,” John threw in.

“He was insufferable, I take it. Sit down, both of you. I’ll ask the landlady to bring tea up here.”

They sat, drank tea and talked. It was like the old times. Abigail wanted a thorough report of everything Thomas had seen in Revolutionary France. Thomas got very enthusiastic about the French revolution, bloody as it was. At this point of the conversation, John and Abby began to exchange Looks. When they said that they’d feared for him at times, he denied having ever been in any danger, almost seeming to somehow not have noticed the violence there.

“Well, we did hear quite some rumors about your activities in France,” Abby said. At this point, the cheer in her voice was somewhat forced.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, about your involvement with a certain lady, for example,” John took over.

He knew Thomas well. A stranger would not have caught it, but John observed the way Thomas seemed to tense up all over.

“A… lady, John?”

“A Maria Cosway, I think.”

Thomas laughed. His whole body uncoiled again. “Ah, Mrs. Cosway. That’s what you mean! My friendship with her was as great as it was foolish… she’s married, though.”

“So am I, dear.” John could feel Abby grasping his hand under the table.

“It wasn’t at all like that. And in any case, it’s now over.”

“So you and her didn’t…?”

“No. Maybe I was a little infatuated with her for a while, but _that_ …? No, not at all, not once.”

John nodded his approval, then looked at Abby. Her eyes advised caution.

“There was something else that he was not saying,” she would tell him later, when they were alone. “He is hiding something from us, something else that happened in Paris, and I don’t think it has anything to do with Mrs. Cosway.”

For now, though, she silenced them by beckoning them to follow her into the bedroom, where she had Thomas lie down on his back, bound his hands to the bedpost, lifted her skirts and sat down on his face. John watched, feeling his arousal skyrocket at the sight of his two dearest friends together, the way Thomas’s lips soon glistened with Abby’s wetness, the way his long, lean body was tense with want, the way Abby threw her head back as she instructed him to go _harder, deeper, a little more to the left, yes there oh you’re being such a good boy._ The way Thomas lapped at her with something close to greed. The way she ground down on him with abandon as she neared orgasm.

Abby let him bring her off the first time, then she went over to John, undressed him and, without much preamble, sat down on his dick. Thomas, still bound to the bed, had to watch them make love to each other, writhing and still unfulfilled, making keening little sounds for attention which they did not heed. There was an unspoken agreement between John and Abby to make him wait this time, and for a split-second John couldn’t help but think that in this moment Thomas was being punished for straying from their opinions, for his republican values, for his delusional glorification of France, for all that had changed.

They came pretty simultaneously, and as Abby rose, she whispered something in John’s ear. John grinned. This would be fun.

They got out of the bed, for all intents and purposes pretending Thomas wasn’t there. In the room there was a small desk that John sometimes wrote letters on in leisurely mornings. He sat down at that desk, watching as Abby took a card game from a drawer and joined him. John immersed himself in the game, valiantly not stealing glances at Thomas, who was shifting a little on the bed but not making any other sounds, yet. Soon his stoic composure would crack, and he would make his discontent known. Would he complain or beg? John was looking forward to finding out.

This had gone on for about fifteen minutes when Abby suddenly put her cards down and placed a hand on his arm.

“John, enough,” she muttered, nodding her head in Thomas’s direction.

Not that Thomas was trying to draw attention to himself. He just lay there, unmoving, staring straight ahead with dull, vacant eyes. He didn’t struggle against his bonds. He had made no attempt to free himself or get them to do it. His cock, that had visibly tented his pants before, was now limp, as were his hands in their ties. John had last seen that look in Thomas’s eyes in 1776, when the whole of congress had united to mutilate his Declaration of Independence. It meant he had turned inward. He was probably somewhere in there contemplating some philosophical question or other, only very loosely connected to the here and now.

“Goddammit,” John said under his breath. This was a part of The Old Times that he hadn’t wanted back.

They untied Thomas from the bed and were very soft with him, very liberal with kisses and muttered reassurances. Thomas shook them off like flies, never rude, never angry, but single- and absent-minded. He rubbed at his wrists automatically where the ties had chafed them, and pulled his sleeves over the marks as he got up and said he’d take his leave. John couldn’t tell if he even registered their attempts at apology as he left the room, walking like a man in a dream.

 

* * *

 

John spent the rest of the day and the night feeling horrible about the incident. He wasn’t sure what to do to make it right, or how to even approach the issue at all. He let the next day go by moping, until Abigail quite sternly told him to just get it over with and visit Thomas already. When he did go, it was already approaching sunset.

Thomas now lived in a different house than the one he had inhabited in ’76, but on his way there, John came past the alley that led to his old apartment. He stood for a second, peered down the road and remembered the sunlit room with papers strewn across every flat surface in which their affair had started. He remembered the sweltering heat, the staircase covered in ivy that led to the front door, the little garden in the back, nights filled with debates and music from a violin and beads of sweat on freckled skin and sometimes blessed silence. It was strange to think that this room probably had a new tenant now, one that knew nothing of what had happened there, of the Declaration of Independence, the bright new future that had hatched there, or the secret, lovely thing that had also begun. Now everything felt different in Philadelphia, older, colder, grayer.

He realized that sometimes he missed the revolution. Yes, they had lived in fear of the British, but on the other hand, the enemy had been a clearly defined alien power, and they had been the rebellious conspirators planning the bright and glorious future of their new country. They had been useful. They had been filled with zeal. There had been no petty partisan fighting, no endless boring paperwork. There had been _revolution_.

He realized that Thomas missed the revolution too. That he was clinging to it every day, not wanting to look the passage of time in the face and move on, not wanting to acknowledge that they had their new country now, so it was time to sit down and organize it. That this was probably why he had dabbled so excessively in France. Revolution was exciting, banks were very much not. John couldn’t agree with Thomas, but maybe he could understand him.

 

When he knocked at Thomas’s door and asked his forgiveness, Thomas was very dismissive of the issue, brushing it all aside, saying there was nothing to forgive. Again John didn’t quite agree, but he was glad that Thomas wasn’t angry. He kissed the red marks that were still visible on Thomas’s wrists, kissed every other part of Thomas he could easily reach over and over, and told him what he had neglected to tell him the day prior: how he loved him, how he valued him, how they might find themselves on different sides of a party divide but how that would never change his unwavering devotion to the man himself.

When at last they fell asleep on Thomas’s bed together, John noticed how their positions were different now than they had once been. Now it was he who was curled up against Thomas, who was stretched out comfortably, one arm supporting his head, the other intruding into John’s side of the mattress; in fact he was presently resting his head on it. Apparently Thomas had finally learned how to carry his height. And it made a noticeable difference: Thomas was _tall_ , and he was taking up quite a lot of space.

 

* * *

 

“You seem obsessed with Hamilton lately.”

Time had passed since Thomas’s return to America. Thomas was firmly settled in his position of Secretary of State now. But that didn’t necessarily mean that things were better, or perfect, or anything approaching satisfactory.

“I mean you spend all this time in a room with him and…you talk about almost nothing else and…”

“Obsessed! My dear John, the man is a threat to all we fought for! Of course I must devote a portion of my time to bringing him down!” Thomas said almost feverishly. John looked around uncomfortably. No one on the street they were walking down paid them any mind.

“You know, I’ve heard a strange rumor about him,” Thomas went on, his eyes gleaming in a way that worried John.

“There are many rumors about Hamilton,” he said.

“This one concerns… relations he appears to have had with a fellow soldier in the Continental Army. And it is most probably true.”

“Relations, huh? You mean like…?” John squeezed Thomas’s arm to demonstrate. “Well, what are _we_ to do?”

“John, we could unmake him… as he us.”

“As he us?” John echoed.

Thomas made a face. “I, well, I was approached by him after our last cabinet meeting. John, he _knows_. Or at least suspects.”

John gave an incredulous snort. “Come now. How could he possibly know?”

John was growing worried over Thomas’s fixation on Hamilton. John viewed Hamilton as a potentially dangerous, disrespectful upstart with more than a few tricks up his sleeve. But to Thomas, he seemed to blow up into a sort of bogeyman, a dark wraith put upon the world specifically to threaten everything Thomas held dear: first his ideals, now apparently his very heart.

“Well, his affair with that soldier, that… John Laurens… made him experienced in the matter. He says to have observed certain signs when seeing us together.”

“Your last cabinet meeting was last week. When were you planning on telling me this?”

“Am I not telling you right now? And even before he approached me and tried to threaten to expose us should I not let him have his stupid national bank… the little bastard carried this knowledge around with him since he first observed us together in public… but now, now that we know about his own proclivities, this creates a tableau!”

“Yes. I wonder how many other men in this government are involved in sodomy. There seem to be an awful lot.”

“I don’t know. The president? He seemed to be quite fond of the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“Washington? You’re kidding…”

 

* * *

 

John remembered the Bunch of Grapes tavern. Back in the Simpler Old Time, when they’d both just been delegates with the Second Continental Congress, they had come here sometimes, drinking rum, playing footsies under the table, complaining heatedly about the doings of men like John Dickinson or Edward Rutledge, men they wrote letters to these days and regarded them as old chums because in retrospect, they had been mild and benevolent compared to the kind of opposition they now faced.

Today there were no footsies, there was no rum and John felt rather cold.

“You can’t resign,” he said.

“Not only can I,” Thomas said, “I have already done it. For now, my only wish is to return to my farm and, well… my family and my books. I haven’t the mind for--”

“Haven’t the mind for politics! That’s what you always say! Thomas, you are fooling yourself if you’re thinking you do not belong in the arena just as much as I do.”

“I cannot win here, John. Hamilton is controlling the cabinet and the president like a puppet.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t think anyone easily manipulates Washington…”

“If you were in the cabinet, you would know how far Hamilton’s influence reaches. He will see his monarchical ambitions fulfilled, come what may…”

“Well, I’m not in the cabinet,” John said testily. “Look, I don’t like Mr. Hamilton either, but you are growing exceedingly paranoid. Are you going to tell me he is hiding under the table right now, listening in on this conversation… you did not seriously just look under the table!”

“Maybe I did! So what! You mentioned something under the table and so I glanced there before fully catching your meaning! Of course Hamilton is not there…” Thomas sighed. “This just proves my point. I need to go home. I’m very… tired, John.”

“We have fought larger, more fearsome enemies than Hamilton before. Thomas, we can do this, together!”

“John,” Thomas said, “In your position… I don’t think you can help me. Not this time. Not anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Thomas departed for Monticello and John tried to hide from the world how much he missed him. On the one hand, he was convinced that Thomas’s talents were wasted in Monticello. What did he even do up there? Nothing. He hung about and did nothing and probably spent even more money on imported French wine.

On the other hand, Thomas had been so quarrelsome, partisan, stubborn and paranoid as Secretary of State, John was glad he was temporarily removed from the scene to cool his head. Thomas might proclaim that he’d retired from politics completely and forever, but John didn’t believe that for a second. Thomas had a good deal to say about the virtues of farming, but in the end John knew that Thomas, for all his reticent manner, thrived on excitement. Eventually, he would grow bored of watching his slaves farm.

 

* * *

 

It turned out Thomas wasn’t the only one to feel very tired. After two terms in office, Washington was stepping down.

“Will Thomas be running?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, of course he will. Although _running_ might be the wrong word for what he does. He will be sitting it out on top of his mountain, as is his wont, but the Republicans will drag him into the race kicking and screaming… or at least he’ll want it to appear like that. As much as he still denies having ever been a partisan, he has practically founded the party – of course they’ll want him to run.”

“Mr. Hamilton has been voicing his support for Mr. Pinckney.”

“Hah! I know. Apparently Hamilton isn’t so much judging by who would make a good president but who will allow him to best restrain or better Thomas. And he’s come to the conclusion that I’m… unqualified for that task for some reason. These two will be the death of us all.”

John sighed. “I almost wish he gets parked with the vice-presidency. Thomas, not Hamilton. In that office he could do neither much good nor any harm.”

And so it happened.

 

* * *

 

John stood in Washington’s empty office, that was now John’s office, leaning on the desk with his back to the door.

He was the president.

He was the president of the United States.

The President.

Of the whole United States.

Damn did it feel good to think this.

Then, in his back, he heard the door click shut.

He turned around just as Thomas nonchalantly turned the key in the lock. Then he looked at John, his eyes filled with a quiet intent. For a moment, John was afraid that the next thing he’d feel would be Thomas’s hands around his neck as he squeezed the life out of him and claimed the presidency for himself.

(Just earlier, as John had made his inauguration speech, he had felt Jefferson’s eyes linger on him, and later as he shook the hand of his new vice-president, Thomas had beamed at him and for a crazy split-second John had thought they would both lean in for a kiss right there in a room full of congressmen.)

Thomas was there for that kiss. He crossed the room in three long strides and pressed his lips to John’s, capturing him against the desk. The kiss was hard and glowing and full of a nameless, terrible passion.

Thomas was the first to break away. “Mr. President,” he whispered breathlessly, his voice and feverish eyes conveying some strange emotion. Lust, probably. Love, maybe.

John grinned up at him. “You know I’ll always just be John to you. Mr. Vice-President.”

“Still, you _are_ the president now.”

“I _am_ the president.”

John felt a bit dizzy. This was so different from the quiet relief he usually felt after a hard-won victory. This victory was so huge it sent him reeling. He looked at Thomas and saw that same feeling mirrored on his face. He tugged Thomas down to his height and kissed him again.

“I cannot believe,” Thomas muttered between kisses. “I am doing this here… with the president… I am having a liaison with the president!” He laughed, his strange tittering laugh.

“John. Sir. Mr. President.”

“Yes, what?”

“Could we. Here on the desk…”

“Hussy! We will not.”

“I do like when you call me that.”

“If you don’t back off, you little strumpet, I will spank your cheeks red as cherries,” John said, jokingly threatening with his hand.

“I would not dislike you doing that,” Thomas replied, bending suggestively over the desk.

John reddened. This impossible man. Always managed to throw him a couple of curveballs.

But there was no one around but them, the door was safely locked, and John had to admit he felt a little drunk on his newly-won power. He put a hand on Thomas’s back to keep him bent over the desk and brought the other hand down to deliver an experimental slap to his rear. Thomas flinched hard, a little whimper escaping his lips.

“Do it once more,” he whispered.

“Oh,” John breathed, tugging Thomas’s pants down to expose his ass. He could tell that Thomas was not often, maybe never, in this position, all out in the open: there were no freckles on his buttcheeks. Truly a place where the sun didn’t shine.

He brought his hand down once more, leaving a visible red mark this time. “Again, harder,” Thomas begged.

The next slap left an impressive handprint on Thomas’s butt, all five fingers clearly distinguishable. Thomas moaned and arched his back, eager to meet John’s hand.

“Good lord, you’re enjoying this, huh?” John asked, raining a series of short, sharp blows down on the other man’s behind. Thomas was clinging to the desk, clawing at the wood.

“Yes, sir. Mr. President. I need this. I deserve this,” he rambled.

John halted for a second, with his hand still raised. He was ridiculously aroused, but he couldn’t help but wonder. What did Thomas think he deserved a punishment for? Or was he just saying this because he derived genuine pleasure from it?

He slapped him again, hard, earning another lovely moan in response. Both Thomas’s ass cheeks were now flaming red and warm to the touch. All these years, John thought, and he had never really _appreciated_ the man’s butt. It was wonderfully firm even now that Thomas was not quite young anymore, a testament to years of vigorous exercise. Just grabbing it, kneading it, listening to the wonderful noises this elicited from Thomas, made John’s dick twitch. He fantasized of fucking him here on the desk later, when Thomas was thoroughly out of his mind with pleasure-pain, but it had to stay a fantasy – they had no oil or grease here to ease the way. For now, he just slapped Thomas again-

“Ah – good lord, yes…”

And again-

“Oh… mm, please…”

And again-

“Master,” Thomas sobbed.

John stilled completely. “What did you just call me?”

He heard Thomas muffling a curse against the wood of the desk. John stepped back. He was just now beginning to notice just how much his hand was hurting. Within a second, the mood had turned sour.

“Out of all things to call me, you choose this. A slavery metaphor.”

“I’m… it slipped…”

“Is that what this was to you? Is that what you were _thinking_ of just now?”

“John, listen…”

John tried to shake some life back into his aching hand. His erection had thoroughly waned. “Disgusting,” he said. “ _Dis_ -gusting.”

“ _John_. It was nothing-”

“Pull your pants up, Mr. Jefferson, and get out of my office.”

Thomas left, pulling his dignity around himself like a tattered cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that tjeffs would use That Word in the bedroom at some point is an old headcanon going all the way back to two months or something ago when i still had a girlfriend to share headcanons with. andrea if you're reading this i'm very sorry for everything


	4. Hello Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson: every action has its equalopposite *falls over*  
> Sally Hemings: *pokes him with a mop* get up asshole I have to clean here
> 
> I listened to Adele while editing this
> 
> Okay so this chapter is Difficult, as I'm having to crawl into the head of someone with views that I fundamentally do not agree with. unfortunately I had to include some slurs that I personally would never use and I hate that Thomas Jefferson used them but there's nothing I can do about that really. Sally Hemings Is Here, there'll be no non-con in this chapter but we all know it happened. If you think I handled the issue disrespectfully in any way, shoot me a comment. I'm ready to learn and check myself. Other thing this chapter is going to have: meltdowns, dissociation (?) (I guess? kinda?) and a bit of substance abuse. The election of 1800 my dudes.

John was going to send him to France again.

Thomas didn’t want to be sent to France. As much as he would love to see Paris again, he couldn’t leave the US at present. His party – yes, he supposed, he had to think in terms of parties now – needed him here. If John removed him from the scene, he would remove his one rival who could equal him and would certainly continue steering a federalist course that Thomas deemed disastrous. He could not go abroad and broadcast views that he so blatantly disagreed with, even if they were John’s views. And he had to remain in place to counter the Hamiltonians that still, for some reason, infested the cabinet – those were his reasons as far as politics went.

In his heart, he felt scorned. The humiliation of their last encounter still hung heavily between them and the tension had not dissipated in the time since John’s inauguration. And now John was going to send him away, cast him out, the very thing he had feared ever since John had tasked him with writing a declaration back in 1776. Back then, he had assured him that he would not have outlived his usefulness when the document was written. Well, apparently he had outlived it now.

When he said to John that he couldn’t accept the commission, John looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time and wasn’t very happy with what was before his eyes. Thomas was aware that in refusing to support John, he was breaking them up, plain and simple. But this was his response to being so scorned. He raised the stakes and scorned right back. On a warm, humid midmorning on a Philadelphia street, he rejected John Adams, and they took off down the road in opposite directions, and Thomas held his head high. There was now no person in the world whose love he could rely on – but it was a sacrifice he had to make if he wanted to ensure that the ideals the revolution had been fought for would be treasured in the government of these United States.

 

* * *

 

Vice-President. What a useless office. He had hated to see John’s talents wasted in it, and now he hated the fact that his own talents were wasted in it just the same. Well, John at least consulted him occasionally, on matters in which he could hope that Thomas would agree with him. John was trying to achieve a peace with France. John was trying. That was maybe the most positive thing that could be said about his presidency – _John was trying_. But John was not trying hard enough. Sometimes Thomas almost thought that maybe John actually wanted a war, and told him as much. In any case, his attempts to stay impartial seemed to be set to fail. To align themselves with France against Britain – that was what Thomas thought they should be doing.

In these meetings, he found within himself a strange sort of brittle strength that made him appear impervious to the onslaught of raw feelings that was John Adams. Their debates lacked the warmth of friendly banter that they’d had before, and while Thomas’s heart might drown in its own afflicted confusions, he stood tall and didn’t show it. He was a pillar of salt and, for the first time in their acquaintance, John looked at him and stumbled over his words, flinched when Thomas addressed him formally by his title, his tone almost beseeching Thomas to understand him, to support him, to be with him again. When he didn’t crack, John quickly turned to anger, and many of their meetings ended in shouting or Thomas abruptly walking away. Whenever John requested the presence of his VP, Thomas knew that another wound was to be dealt to both their hearts. He began to quietly resent John for setting up these meetings, as they achieved nothing and pained them both. With time, quiet resentment grew and festered into something stronger.

 

* * *

 

“He will ask me if I paid Mr. Callender,” Thomas said.

His reflection in his bedroom mirror didn’t answer.

“He will ask me if I paid Mr. Callender, and what in god’s name will I say?”

Still, his reflection was silent.

Thomas sighed. Here he was, arguing with his mirror image for lack of anyone else to go to. There was Madison, sure, but while James was a good friend, he was not a good advisor when emotions were involved. Rational and pragmatic to the core, sometimes Madison almost scared Thomas. And even if that weren’t so, there was no one he could seek out for advice on how to handle the situation with John, for no one knew the entire truth about the situation with John. He hadn’t told anyone, why should he have? It would’ve placed John and him in a great deal of danger, and in any case he had been perfectly fine with their affair being just between the two of them (and Abigail, of course) and confined to various bedrooms. But now his heart was being torn apart and he could tell no one. John had been his go-to person in matters of the heart. Every time he so much as imagined substituting John with some other person, it did not work out. It hadn’t worked out with Maria Cosway, and the… well… arrangement he had left at Monticello was certainly not even close to satisfactory for any parties involved.

It was a quandary that had no solutions. For now, he had to once again face John. Apparently there was something urgent to be discussed. As he made a haphazard effort to tidy his hair by raking his fingers through it, Thomas wondered if today would be a yelling day or an icy politeness day, or maybe both. Icy polite yelling. Fantastic.

These days, he found himself neglecting his appearance. When in Europe, he had tried to make an effort with his clothes and his hair but now he didn’t see the point. Primping and preening and spending an ungodly amount of time and money on tailoring and hair styling was for people like Hamilton, who wished to rise in society and had everything yet to prove. Himself, he was well enough established to dress like a slob if he damn well wanted to. He could even work it in his favor, put some Simple Republican, Man Of The People twist on it. In truth, there was just no one to impress. So Thomas didn’t see why he should care.

What he did have to care about was the impending meeting with John which he already dreaded. To think that once upon a time, being in the same room as John Adams had been a thing he had greatly desired! That time seemed like an eternity ago.

 

As he waited to be let into John’s office, he could feel his anxiety rising. Already he kept wiping his sweaty palms on his breeches, and he hadn’t even seen John yet. _He will ask me,_ he kept thinking. _He will ask and everything will be ruined. I cannot lie to that man. I cannot. He will see right through me._

At last, John came out and beckoned him into the office, directing him to a chair. He did not look particularly enraged. But with John’s temper, these days, one could never say. Perhaps this was the calm before the storm.

“Mr. Jefferson, do sit down.” Ah, how he hated this. Not too long ago, he had simply been Thomas to John, Tom sometimes when they had been alone together, and, in the most intimate moments, pet names like _my boy, my dearest, my love_. Love! What a remote concept that was now. Sometimes it felt like he had dreamed it all, like it was impossible that he could have ever heard such sentiment from John’s lips, directed at him. That he used to kiss those very lips, and feel their loving caress on intimate parts of his anatomy.

It had been a dream. Had to have been. Maybe the entire year of 1776 and the city of Paris had been nothing but his fever dreams. Maybe that was why, in the waking present, everyone seemed to treat him like he was out of his mind.

He sunk down into a chair, feeling thoroughly miserable.

“Well,” said John, taking a seat opposite him. “Now that you’re here, there’s the matter of certain documents I’d like to discuss.”

_Callender_ , Thomas thought again. _Right now he’ll ask me if I have approved his libels, if I have sponsored the publication of them._

Thomas recalled Callender’s words under his hands. _Blind, old, crippled, bald, toothless, Adams_ , they whispered in his mind. He had felt drunk on his own poisons when he had put down the draft and said, in a light, half-joking manner, “Just so.”

The _hermaphroditical_ had been a personal cruel touch, a last flourish to the insult. _Neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman._ He had been personally proud of it. Feeling playful, he had suggested, “Why not top it off with the suggestion that he is a sodomite?” Callender, who was an all around horrible man, had smirked and asked, “Why, Mr. Jefferson, how would _you_ know?” They had not added it.

Still, even without the additional pejorative that had the power to unmake them both, Thomas was very much at risk of this coming back around to bite him.

It would come back around to bite him _right now_.

As Thomas sat tensely in his chair, John pushed two pieces of paper towards him. “Would you mind having a look at these bills?”

Furrowing his brows, Thomas took up the documents. They were not in any way associated with James Callender. In fact, he had never seen them before.

“The… Alien and Sedition Acts?” he asked. “What are these?”

“Congress deems these bills essential,” John said. “Please read them.”

As Thomas perused the bills, his initial relief turned into consternation.

“Well, what do you think?” John asked when he put them down.

“What do I think? I think this is a blatant attack on free speech.” Perfect: the opening for an argument. Soon there would be yelling or some such again. Thomas abhorred confrontation, with John even more than with other people. But he couldn’t just let this be. “Correct me if I am wrong, but this looks to me as though you’re planning on, what, shipping off the entire French immigrant population of these States United, along with every other luckless soul who expresses an opinion that doesn’t suit your tastes?”

“Let us not make sweeping generalizations. If, and only if, said opinion endangers the peace, then, yes, I plan on holding the person voicing the opinion responsible.”

“But where is the line drawn? Who determines what’s endangering the peace and what is just a normal opinion? You? Have I reason to fear, John, for myself and every other person in this country who is not a federalist? Oh no, wait, Mr. Hamilton exists. Not even federalists are safe.”

“Of course you do not have to fear for yourself, _Thomas_. Don’t be silly. But in these trying times, we must look to the nation’s safety.”

“And the nation is safe as long as no one insults you?”

“Look…”

“Also might I remind you that we are not currently at war.”

“Congress demands…”

“You are spitting on the revolution, and all it was fought for.”

“I am doing no such thing. The revolution, Thomas, is _over_. You might not have noticed, but it has been for years. Don’t you think it’s high time for you to, well, move on?”

Thomas gave John his best blank stare. “The people won’t accept these acts.”

“The people’s representatives have demanded them. Were you not listening to me earlier? You are yourself the president of the Senate. Would you have me disregard their voices?”

“President of the Senate! I am lounging in a useless office, as you know all too well. There is nothing here for me to do. I might as well go back to Monticello.”

“That you may.” John sighed. “Parts of these acts don’t appeal to me either. But they are necessary for right now.” He cast a disgruntled look at the papers again as he lit a cigar. “Abby says I should sign them.”

“And I say you shouldn’t,” Thomas said, getting up and heading for the door. “Not like that counts for anything nowadays.”

They exchanged a long look, both knowing that the other was thinking of a time when Thomas’s counsel (oh, and not just his counsel) had been cherished exactly as much as Abigail’s, no more and no less. If they stayed like this a second longer, they would probably end up in each other’s arms, apologizing, maybe sobbing, and in ten minutes they would be making out on the desk.

Thomas stepped out and closed the door behind him. The noise of it closing sounded like the full stop at the end of a sentence never spoken.

Only as he went home it occurred to him that this was, after all, the aftermath of the Callender thing. His libels had gotten John to the point where he had started thinking that a law stating that no one was allowed to libel the president was a good idea. Thomas cursed quietly.

 

* * *

 

John signed the Alien and Sedition Acts, and Thomas went to Monticello. As always, he was glad to be home, but this time around it came with a touch of bitterness. It reeked of defeat. Of John having driven him out of Philadelphia with his proverbial tail between his legs.

The first weeks at home were spent pretending that he didn’t at all care about this fact. He skulked about the place, startling the slaves and puzzling the children and probably igniting the hatred of those inhabitants of the estate who were both. Not that he blamed them for not thinking highly of him. He’d given them no reason to.

He languished in his, what, semi-retirement? self-imposed holiday? for a while, trying his best to distract himself with his books and his garden and the many other means of entertainment at hand. But, just this once, he found it hard to keep himself out of politics. Out there, the Alien and Sedition Acts were causing what popularity John still possessed to rapidly crumble. John’s peace negotiations with the French were still fruitless. In the next election, people said, John Adams had nothing to show for himself and nothing to expect. That Thomas would run again was treated by the Republican party as a foregone conclusion. And his chances were not bad.

He had subscribed to several newspapers to keep himself updated, and accounts from friends and followers came in every other day. Unfortunately, this also meant that a lot of federalist propaganda was being dumped onto his desk with the morning post. They were getting downright vicious.

 

It was the year 1800.

 

“Apparently if people vote for me, violent bloodshed equal to the French revolution will reign in America, formerly virtuous wives will lose said virtue, and the holy bible will be trampled on and burned in the streets. Next it will be crops failing and cattle being inexplicably barren as I walk past them, I’m sure.”

Thomas stared at his desk in silence. His only companion in the room said nothing. She wasn’t much of a talker. All he could hear from her was the faint rustle of her dress as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“How long is this drivel to continue?” he asked no one in particular. “Oh I’m sure John would love everyone, including me, to believe that this, this tasteless garbage in their so-called newspapers – not that they deserve the name – is all Hamilton’s doing. Some of it certainly is – the man’s just spitting vitriol at everyone now. But I see you, John, I see your hand in this. I know you would like people to see in you a neutral observer, standing by as Hamilton and I have a scrap, shaking your head wisely in the middle ground! Nobody’s falling for it.”

He took a deep breath, shaky with rage, clutching the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white and the wood gave a protesting creak.

“I want to hurt him, Sally.”

Being thusly addressed, and pushed into saying something, Sally asked: “Who?”

“Whom. John Adams, of course.”

At the mention of that name, she inhaled sharply.

“Is something the matter?”

“I… Mr. Adams is known to me,” she said carefully.

“What? Oh, yes, he is, isn’t he. I keep forgetting that you met him in England. Tell me, what did you think of him?”

Thomas had spun his chair so that he wasn’t directly facing Sally. In his periphery, he could just about make out her face. It was carefully emotionless, with her lips pressed into a straight line. It occurred to him that a Sally Hemings lived politics no less than an Abigail Adams. For him, their rather one-sided conversation was just an opportunity to monologue at someone who couldn’t walk away or talk back to him. For her, it was walking a diplomatic tightrope.

“I used to think he was your friend, sir,” she settled for saying.

Thomas sighed. “I used to think the same thing. But now! I must respond in turn.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Yes, indeed. He did not have to go quite this far. He did not have to get personal.” He pushed aside any thought on the Callender incident for the moment. “But I must show him that in this, as in all, I am his equal if not superior. He must learn that I am not his little sniveling protégé…”

“His what?”

“His… well, his _boy_!”

Sally repeated herself in saying nothing. It was alright that way.

He hadn’t told her the truth about the nature of his relationship with John. Why should he? He did not like the thought of one person in possession of all his secrets. Least of all Sally, whom he had already given too much of a hold over him. He knew she knew that he would not let her slip away from him, not with all she knew, not with the indisputable proof that were her pale-skin red-hair children. If she got to a place where she could make her voice heard, _someone_ would _probably_ listen to her. Especially in the present climate, where mud was slung in all possible directions.

“I will work the monarchist angle,” he decided. “I’m sure Mr. Callender and the likes of him will think of something suitably absurd that the public will nonetheless believe. With the Alien and Sedition Acts, John has already… let’s see… taken the first steps in quashing all opposition towards his rise to power as, well, His Rotundity King Adams of Peacefield, I suppose, and trampling on the constitutional right of every man in these states to speak freely. That’ll work.”

“May _I_ speak freely, Mr. Jefferson?” Sally asked from where she was standing.

“No, Sally, but you may say what’s on your mind.”

“Our children.” Ah, Sally’s second favorite topic, right after _When Will You Finally Give Me My Freedom._ Again, he couldn’t blame her. He knew she doted on the children in whatever spare time she had; they were a spot of joy in a life largely devoid of it. And it wasn’t as if they had much else to talk about when they were alone together like this. They had nothing besides in common.

“Yes, what about them?” He put his quill pen down and stared ahead out of the window. It was looking to be a cloudy day, maybe with a few drops of rain later in the afternoon.

“You _will_ set them free when they come of age, will you? You promised me. Sir.”

“Yes, I don’t intend to keep them. Anything else?”

_This is getting redundant,_ Thomas thought. Was she thinking he might forget his promise if not regularly reminded? But then again, she was probably anxious. She had no reason at all for trusting his word.

“If they’re looking to get by in the world out there, they need to learn.”

“Learn what?”

“Reading. Writing. Numbers. Things a slave won’t know but a freeman will.”

Thomas saw that her face now had a decidedly agonized pinch to it, and it occurred to him to feel a sting of pity. They were both aware that if they wanted to lead a happy, long life in freedom, as she wanted them to, the children would have to pass as white. This entailed them severing any and all ties with their family, their doting mother included.

“If I asked anyone to teach them, it would rouse suspicion.”

“Then you must do it!” she entreated him, stepping closer. She went as far as to put a hand on his shoulder. In theory, she was allowed to touch him, she just never voluntarily did it. She had to be really serious about this.

“My time does not allow it.”

“Please, Mr. Jefferson, you are the only one who can,” she muttered in what she probably thought was a sensual voice. “I’d do it myself if I could, but I… can’t.” Her fingers found her way into his hair, winding into his queue in that special way that, under other circumstances, would have made him melt into the upholstery. Under these circumstances, he just shuddered. There was not a speck of love between them, and yet he had allowed things to progress in such a way that she had learned to employ this gesture when she wanted something from him. In a very real sense, this did not matter, as he was still the one in their dynamic who held all the power, but… here was an intimate little thing that he had only ever shared with… her-whom-he-did-not-think-about, Patsy’s mother, and John. A pure thing, now tainted by his baser instincts, his disgusting weakness, his selfish greed. So many pure things were becoming tainted lately.

He waved her off. “Very well, I will attend to it whenever it is possible.”

She gave one last tug at his hair before she let go, secure in the knowledge that compared to other slaves, she was special, and could risk these kinds of actions without being punished with more than a stern glare. “I’ll hold you to it… _sir_.”

 

* * *

 

“Now this is classic John Adams when angered,” he said, waving yet another paper. “Look at these insults to my person! How does he… _son of a half-breed Indian squaw and a mulatto slave_ … where does he get this from? Do I look like any kind of half-breed to you?”

“Not you, sir,” said Sally, a mixed-race slave.

At any other time, he would have beheld her stony expression, her tapping foot and her crossed arms with some trepidation, because getting on Sally’s bad side was an ugly affair, but in this moment he was too upset to care.

“Murder, rape, adultery and incest openly practiced… children skewered on pikes? _What?_ This pamphlet is beyond absurd. He’s finally lost his mind for good. He cannot seriously be thinking…”

Thomas crumpled up the pamphlet and flung it to a far corner of the room, pretending not to notice that Sally flinched when he threw it. His brain felt like it was boiling over, and he could sense the beginnings of another goddamn migraine. After pacing for a minute, which had not made anything better, he stepped out onto the back terrace, where the rain was beating down upon the tiles and subsequently on him. He didn’t even notice. Well, of course he knew he was getting wet, but he knew that like he knew the moon existed. It was certainly a true fact, but it was far away and not relevant or important to him at present. His conscious mind was rattling around somewhere inside him, not feeling very conscious at all. His observance of his surroundings was limited to the fact that he was staring out at his garden, and the heaving of his lungs as he gulped down huge mouthfuls of the cool, fresh air. He was vaguely aware that this wasn’t helping, but it didn’t really matter in the face of the swirling maelstrom that were his thoughts.

He wanted to scream. He couldn’t scream. It didn’t do for a dignified statesman to scream on his back porch. But…

He could put up with whatever insult Hamilton and his High Federalists hurled at him. But when it came from John, it was an entirely different matter.

Surely John couldn’t mean it. They were both just doing this to convince the public in no uncertain terms that one of them, not the other, ought to be the president. This was a purely political rift. This wasn’t personal. Was it? Was John in the new capital hating him? Had John been having these thoughts about him even prior to when they had split? Had he always seen Thomas as nothing but a weak, confused and ignorant boy, to be taken under the wing of an older, more experienced politician lest he hurt himself? And, worst of all, was John right? _Was John right?_

Thomas certainly felt weak and confused now. His hands were clutching the railing for support and his hitching breath resounded in his ears, but he had no idea how to stop it. Reality spun madly out of focus because John hated him.

“Mr. Jefferson! Won’t you step out of the rain?”

That was Sally’s voice somewhere behind his back. Which probably made sense, but he didn’t want Sally to see him like this. He tried to tell her to leave, but his words wouldn’t come. Bloody typical.

_John,_ he thought, his grasp on consciousness slipping.

John could help him find his words. He always had.

But John hated him.

He didn’t really recall how he had gotten inside, but the next thing he knew was that he was in his bed, with Sally and her brother James looking down on him with these still carefully neutral expressions, and that his head was hurting like it was about to split apart. He dismissed them, peeled the wet clothes off himself and crept underneath the blankets.

Even so, curled up in a blanket cocoon with an enormous migraine, a part of his mind, the one that mostly just watched, was starting to plot his counterattack. He would harp on John’s still mostly fruitless efforts in France. Tell the populace that John secretly wanted to start a war there. Yes. That would work.

 

* * *

 

“Dead,” he said dully.

Thomas was yet again sprawled in his swivel chair, not having the motivation to get up and find another, more comfortable place to sit. Besides, he had during the last hour or so put himself in such a state that the discomforts of his body seemed nicely cloudy and far away.

This latest pamphlet, that he was now idly flicking across his cluttered desk, had been the overkill. He groaned as he grabbed the bottle of wine that had stood by his elbow, and was irritated when he, upon trying to pour himself another glass, discovered that there was no glass there. There had been one, before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where on the desk he had last put it, and since it had gotten dark around him, it was proving hard to find. He contemplated lighting a candle to illuminate this business, but quite frankly he did not trust himself with open fire at the moment.

In any case, dead men did not light any candles.

_Well, just this once,_ Thomas thought, bringing the bottle to his lips and tipping it. It was almost empty. But just this once, tonight, he could surely indulge himself. After all, he was dead, so what did it matter?

He flinched pretty hard and almost knocked the bottle against his front teeth when all of a sudden Sally appeared in the door to his study with a light. She was looking vaguely blurry, standing there in the equally blurry doorway. How very off-putting.

“Is there anything I can get you before I retire, sir?” She was under orders to come and ask him this every night. Still, he sometimes allowed himself to pretend that she asked because she cared.

He waved the now empty bottle at her. “Can you bring another one up here?” he asked, trying carefully not to slur with only limited success. “Oh and find a glass.”

She came up to him and softly, but firmly took the bottle from him. “What’s brought this on, sir? Not like you at all.”

“John Adams is telling everyone I’m dead.”

He blinked up at Sally as she rocked back out of his reach and cocked her head. “What?”

“Here… where did the damn thing go…” Thomas said, patting haphazardly at the desk for the paper he had just crumpled up and flicked away. “There’s a, a pamphlet in there somewhere,” he explained, “saying I’m dead, and people should vote for him because he’s alive.”

“Well, that’s not true. So much’s clear.” She made a sweeping gesture at his very alive, if messy, self.

“I know, I know, but how much work will I have to put into… into dis…disproving him. Showing people I’m not dead. How much time will that take, huh? I don’t even… don’t even wanna _think_ …”

He trailed off.

He didn’t want to think of the effort that would have to be taken to assure people that he was indeed alive, to ensure he wouldn’t lose a large number of voters over this rumor. Hadn’t he imbibed this entire bottle of wine by himself to forget about exactly this sort of thing for a while?

“This is a bit silly, right?” he muttered, resting his heavy head upon his arm. “But just, Sally, listen. You’re the only one I can talk to, now.” Oh god, he felt himself approaching the sentimental stage. Clearly he needed another drink, this was just horrible.

When Sally was about to draw away, he captured her wrist in one of his hands. He was fumbling, but she was frozen, perhaps not daring to resist. Her wrists were so slender that he could easily wrap his hand all around.

“I just, this is all so, soooo much.” He interrupted himself by trying to stifle a hiccup. “And I loved John. You don’t even know. I _loved_ John.”

“Can’t help you with that, sir.” She probably thought he had not seen her disgusted expression as she pulled her hand from his grip. He didn’t really mind. So she was disgusted. She had no reason not to be.

Presently, he just really, really needed to finish this business of getting absolutely and completely drunk. He felt like drinking until he forgot his own goddamned name. Honestly, why didn’t he do this more often?

 

* * *

 

Then, after an ugly, tiresome campaign, Thomas found himself back in the Senate chamber, reading out the votes to the Senators, only to discover himself tied with… Aaron Burr.

In that moment, he thought on how he was unable to remember when he’d last had a full night’s sleep without a few drops of laudanum to ward off the fear and the unrest and the night terrors, and how the inside of his head was feeling weirdly sticky, and how his life had seemingly stopped making sense. Aaron _Burr?_

Of course the source of the mistake was clear. They’d have to amend that later in the constitution. For now, the decision passed to the electorates. Thomas smiled to himself and thought that this mess would quickly be untangled.

He was wrong.

After thirty-three ballots and no end in sight, he decided it was time he swallowed his pride and took some direct action.

 

* * *

 

The Presidential Palace was still a work in progress. Slaves roamed everywhere, organized into disorderly work gangs, squatting in shabby tents in the middle of the marsh under heavy gray clouds. It was a dreary, depressing scene.

_Or so you think_ , Thomas said to himself. _Imagine how depressing it must be for the slaves._ Where had they come from? Where would they go when the building was finished?

Inside was dark and cool and damp, and it smelled like drying plaster. Thomas imagined himself living here, alone and cold in these high-ceilinged rooms, small amidst these towering pillars. He was not accustomed to feeling small anymore.

But, well, it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to living in a construction site. Parts of Monticello were constantly being torn down and pulled back up. His entire fortune had already been swallowed by it, but the result would be worth it. It _would_. He _knew_ it.

The rooms were getting slightly more homely and more richly furnished the deeper he went inside. At last he stepped into a kind of office and he found John.

John hadn’t noticed him yet. He was sitting in a sofa by the window reading a book, a blanket spread over his lap to ward off the chill. He looked small, old and as tired as Thomas felt. And alone. It had been easy to hate John for his words when he had been far away, but now, seeing him in person, Thomas’s heart trembled with unwanted, rejected affection.

He cleared his throat. He couldn’t say a word. He wanted to turn around and leave.

John looked up and saw him there. They stared at each other for a second.

“Mr. President,” Thomas said at last, taking a slight bow.

“Mr. President,” John acknowledged, nodding stiffly. “Here to turn my out, are you?”

Well, _now_ he sounded decidedly bitter.

“I have not turned you out,” Thomas said softly. “The people have decided in favor of one political party and against another. It’s not a question of me versus you.”

“Hah!” John snorted.

“And anyway, you honor me too early. The vote’s still deadlocked.”

Rumor had it that the electorates were taking naps on benches in the chamber between ballots, having to constantly be present lest they miss something. They still had an advantage on Thomas, who had not slept at all for the duration of the deadlock. He just hadn’t been able to turn his brain off. His vision was getting slightly fuzzy around the edges. Whenever he blinked, he saw stars.

“The federalists are surely keeping us all on their toes,” he said, leaning against the windowsill. “I was thinking that a word of endorsement from a leading federalist might…”

“Approach Hamilton, then,” John interrupted.

“I will do no such thing.”

“Well, Thomas, I cannot help you. Just tell them that their positions will be considered, that you won’t disband the national bank, that you will be mindful of the national debt, etcetera.”

“I will not enter office burdened by promises that go against my convictions.”

“Well, then, what do you want from me? You have quite some nerve, young man, coming here after everything…”

_Young man_ , Thomas thought. It was ridiculous, but maybe there was an opening here that he could use.

“John, is there nothing I can do to convince you…?” Thomas forced himself to pry his arms away from across his chest, to stand open, to present himself. He was not young anymore, and he had never been the most attractive of men, but yet he felt John’s eyes for a second, flitting over his body.

_He desires me still_ , he thought. That thought ought to have vindicated him, but instead he felt a wave of sadness break over his head. Seeing John like this here, beaten, and himself almost victorious, he felt an overwhelming urge to… well, to sink to his knees, rest his head in John’s lap and beg for forgiveness. He would gladly grovel for the chance to make things right between them, to become John’s boy again. His whole body trembled, heavy with the wish to bend. But no. He was no one’s boy now. He was as good as president. And he had burned that bridge to get here.

So he stayed upright, his back perfectly straight even though it hurt, but when he looked at John’s face, he saw his own wistfulness mirrored there. He knew it took a lot out of John to force himself to hate him, just as Thomas felt himself breaking under the weight of forcing himself to hate John. But they were both too proud and too far in to go back to how things had been.

Then John turned his eyes away and the moment was over.

“No, there is nothing, Mr. Jefferson,” he said quietly. “Good day.”

When they parted, Thomas knew (and he knew John knew) that this opportunity would never come again. It was over.

 

* * *

 

That night, in his hotel room, Thomas looked out at the unfinished city and quietly despaired. He was tired to the point of falling over, but he still couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop until he was certain he had done the most. He had known that in going to meet John, another wound was to be dealt to his heart and it would likely be for nothing. Still, there had been the slightest bit of hope that it might work out for him, so he had done it. What now?

_Approach Hamilton_ , John’s voice echoed in his head. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He kicked his sluggish, sleep-deprived brain into gear and calculated the chances of that going well. Everyone knew that Hamilton despised him. He had, on numerous occasions in the past, made that perfectly clear. Everyone also knew that Hamilton had… a problem of some sort with Burr. Whatever their relationship was, it seemed complicated. Maybe it was the same type of complicated that Thomas and John had. If that were the case… well, he wouldn’t know until he asked the man.

If he was in luck, Hamilton would only want a reassurance that Thomas would cave in on some Federalist demands. If he was unlucky, Hamilton might demand… just about anything. Well, Thomas was out of practice, but he still knew how to suck a dick if it came down to it.

Before he left the room, he tried, for good measure, to get some order into his hair.

 

* * *

 

At last, there was victory. And victory looked like a chamber filled to bursting with people, like a speech scrawled onto parchment, like one empty seat where the outgoing president was supposed to be.

Thomas looked at the sea of faces turned towards him and wanted to hide. He didn’t feel up to speaking around the massive lump in his throat. He had always known that he couldn’t give speeches. This was a fool’s endeavor.

_We are all Republicans_ , said the wicked parchment, _we are all Federalists._

_We are all idiots,_ Thomas added mentally.

He mumbled his way through the speech and tried to ignore everyone in the room craning their heads to hear. Determined as he was not to look up, his eyes kept wandering back to that one empty seat. If John had been here, to shake his hand and tell him he forgave him and that all animosities between them could be buried now that the race was done (as Thomas had sometimes dreamed he would), it could’ve been a good day. But John wasn’t there.

After the inauguration, when James Madison asked him what he would do now that he was president, Thomas said, “I’d very much like to sleep for about three days straight. One day, when you’re the president elect, James, you will understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Jefferson once said he didn't think "nervous" (aka mentally ill) people should be allowed to vote? HahaHAA what did he think he was doing  
> I read once that it is possible that the Hemings children were in some manner or form "prepared" for entering white society. I must get me a book abt them asap to see how that was actually done. There's just so much knowledge I don't have yet you guys  
> Okay this chapter was sad but I'll try and end it on a happy note in the next one. P l e a s e comment, my children are dying, my crops are failing and my house is burnt down,


	5. So It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 3am but I am determined to see this done  
> Bc guess what!! This fic is now finished. I'll do more Jedams after that but yeah, this one's done. Major character death, of old age, bc It's Time. The usual bit of slavery.  
> I read all the letters Jefferson and Adams ever wrote to each other in preparation of this  
> Edward Cole was a real guy, and he really freed all his slaves. Interesting. Everyone in this fic was a Real Existing Person bc I wanted this to be as authentic as possible. The newspaper excerpt I've quoted is what James Callender really wrote, that's why it's so shitty. The "Tom" that is mentioned is likely Thomas Woodson, who was actually neither Sally's son nor a Jefferson. So Callender was slightly off but, well, only slightly. Also Sally and her children were lightskinned, so the whole "sable resemblance" thing is bull. Welp, enough infodumping for today, have fun with the death scenes

John watched Thomas be the president from afar. His first term appeared to go well, and for the most part Mr. Jefferson retained his popularity with the people. He got elected for a second time, an honor that had not been granted to John. And then the embargo happened.

While the country starved, and Europe didn’t even take much notice, the embargo was enforced by the president with an unnecessary zeal that bordered on manic. John was well able to identify the symptoms of Thomas being in over his head. If he thought an idea worked, he stubbornly held on to it, even if it brought everything down upon him crashing and burning. That was just his nature. John sometimes felt a sting of pity for his old flame; he knew how sensitive Thomas was. In the face of failure, he just collapsed and hid in a dark room nursing a headache until the trouble was over. John reckoned that this crisis had to be one of the more severe headaches in Thomas’s life. But then again, maybe John had been right in saying that Thomas shouldn’t have been president in the first place. If he was too fragile for the pressures of the job, maybe it just wasn’t for him.

Thomas was still in office when John heard of the scandal. It was delivered to him by his own youngest son, coincidentally also named Thomas, reading out the morning paper at the breakfast table.

“It is well known that the man, whom it delighteth the people to honor, keeps, and for many years past has kept, as his concubine one of his own slaves. Her name is Sally. The name of her eldest son is Tom. His features are said to be a striking if sable resemblance…”

“Pass me that paper,” John interrupted and his family settled into an awkward silence. The column had much more to say about Thomas. Unfounded claims? Maybe not.

Without a word, John stood and left the table, retreating with the paper to his study. It was not a minute until he heard Abby’s soft knock at the door.

The article claimed that Thomas’s affair with that girl had already started in Paris. _He is hiding something from us, something that happened in Paris_ , John recalled Abby saying to him all these years ago. Well, here at last was a solution to that riddle.

He opened the door for Abigail, silent as she leaned in to read over his shoulder.

“So that was what he didn’t tell us,” she muttered at last.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“God, that poor girl.”

John had to admit he hadn’t given the girl much thought.

“We met her, John, remember? She came to London with poor Maria. I recall writing to Thomas about her, about how young she was. How she was in an almost greater need of care than his daughter.”

“I recall,” John said. He did recall, vaguely, that there had been this strip of a girl waiting on Thomas’s daughter. She’d indeed been young. Pretty, maybe. He really couldn’t say. As women were concerned, he preferred the opinionated, robust, strong type (or really, he preferred Abby). That maidservant of young Miss Jefferson’s had been too much of a child to be any of that. She’d been all shyness, hiding behind a demure demeanor the fact that she’d really been just a lonely girl in a strange land, dropped with people she didn’t know. Maybe she was stronger at home. Considering the life she had to live, John hoped for her sake that she was. Of course she was older now too. Still, even though he’d never quite given up on thinking of Thomas as a boy, he realized he had about thirty years on that girl.

“Her _eldest_ son, it says here,” Abigail continued. “For god’s sake, how many do you think…?”

She interrupted herself, looking faintly sick.

But this was not even all Mr. Callender had to say on the subject of Thomas. He also elaborated on how many, if not all, the vicious attacks on several leading federalists, including “our late president, the esteemed John Adams” conducted by him had been approved and sponsored by Thomas. Callender was ready to provide evidence and testify in a court of law if needed. By lying he had made him president, and now he was ready to undo Thomas with the truth. All the disgusting rumors, all the accusations, all the expletives slung at him during the election of 1800 and before were now, in John’s eyes, no longer the works of some low-minded, sensationalist hacks, but indirectly spawned in the mind of Thomas, a man he had once adored and loved.

John looked at Abigail, crumpling the paper in his hands.

“I recall the place in my heart where Thomas once sat,” Abigail said, and her voice was granite. “This place is now empty.”

How John wished he could say the same of his own heart.

 

* * *

 

In the following weeks he often thought about the great harm Thomas had inflicted on him. How had he felt when penning all these vile words? Had he regretted it, or had he been filled with smug, self-righteous zeal when paying scum like Callender to attack John? Had he laughed? That strange, bird-like laugh that John remembered so well, the one where he tipped his head back and his eyes gleamed with mirth?

No, no he couldn’t imagine Thomas laughing like that at the downfall of a friend, a lover.

And yet… and yet…

John nursed that wound and let it fester away for years. Not many a day passed when he didn’t think of what had happened. He stewed in his righteous indignation, choosing to overlook the fact that while Thomas might have attacked him, he had attacked Thomas just as well. Whenever anyone tried to put in a good word for the Virginian, he waved them off.

Memories were stubborn things, the good ones as well as the bad ones. As time went by, and the peace and quiet of his farm and his family allowed for wounds to heal, John found himself still frequently thinking back on Thomas, but in a far less aggressive way. He felt more inclined to remember the good times now, the revolution, their time together in Europe. He found himself bringing up Thomas out of his own volition whenever he talked to the few common friends from 1776 still surviving, a casual remark here, a joke strewn in there, not quite wanting to hope but hoping anyway that someone would have news.

The 76ers were getting fewer in numbers, and those who were left were undoubtedly getting old. The world spun madly on and what John found himself referring to as the good old days were no longer on America’s busy mind. Maybe he was beginning to understand why Thomas had always been all nostalgia. He began to miss having him to talk to. He found himself rereading old letters, knowing not what it was he wanted. Some form of apology or explanation from Thomas would have been nice. But he was far too proud to ask for any such thing, and he knew that Thomas, being just as proud, would supply none without being prompted.

Still John waited, and tried in vain to forget. He often thought back to their last meeting in the Presidential Palace, to the surge of conflicting feelings that the sight of Thomas had inspired in him. Of course there had been anger, humiliation, defeat. But also…

He remembered that Thomas had looked so tired. Dark under-eye circles, slow drowsy blinking, and hadn’t he looked especially gaunt and pale that day? Maybe it had just been the hair. John was used to Thomas’s vibrant red; it had been a bit of a shock to see that age had finally begun catching up with him and had bleached his hair into a sandy blond hue. John had almost felt pity. The office of president was one you never left with your good name intact.

Well, Thomas’s reputation would probably recover, but the blasted embargo and the affair with his slave girl would tarnish his legacy forever.

The former was out of John’s reach of influence, but he wondered if he couldn’t have averted the latter. If he had but stayed in Europe a while longer, could he have unwittingly saved a young woman, and Thomas from the dark side of himself? Then again, he could have never taken Thomas from the South, or the South out of Thomas. Living one’s whole life depending on black slavery, John had found, tended to leave a moral blot on people’s characters. Everyone knew, and avoided to talk about, the fact that most, if not all, Southern slave-owning planters counted among their slaves a number of their own children. Maybe it had been foolish to think that _his_ Southerner was any better than the others.

Oh yes, he still thought of Thomas as _his_. His _what_ , he would have been hard-pressed to say, if anyone had asked, but at least as far as John Adams was concerned, he and Thomas Jefferson were irrevocably linked. They belonged together, just as John belonged with Abigail.

Still it seemed impossible that they should ever talk again, that one of them should swallow his pride and breach a gap that was, as time dragged on, turning into an abyss, a bottomless chasm. There was no telling what Thomas was thinking of the situation, and John, for his part, waited for a sign.

America might not remember them always, but there certainly was a steady trickle of young men stopping by at Peacefield with the intention of visiting the heroes of ’76 before they all died off and you couldn’t gawk at them anymore. Many of them came for advice, as if John Adams and his compatriots were the oracle of Delphi, others merely came for a chance to pay respects to an idol and to boast having talked to them later. But most of these boys were amiable enough, so John didn’t see why he shouldn’t indulge them if he wasn’t doing anything else that day.

One of these fellows was a Virginian named Edward Cole, and he had just come from Thomas. Cole was a sensible, smart young man who talked at length of his plans to free all his slaves and settle in the West with them as equals. Here was a person who had very recently _seen_ Thomas, and John could barely restrain himself from bombarding him with questions. Was Thomas alright? Was his hair now gray? Did he still get his migraines? Did he still venture out on his horse every morning? Had he mentioned him?

The last question he did ask, making it appear like just a little joke, at no point seriously expecting to get any satisfying answer. But Cole surprised him by retelling an exact account that Thomas had given him about their last meeting.

Thomas hadn’t meant to offend (Cole said). He had taken care to pick a good time for his visit so it wouldn’t be misconstrued as him coming to gloat. He had greatly desired to assuage his old friend (yes, excellent _friends_ they had been, hadn’t they? John thought as he suppressed a shudder at a sudden intrusive memory of Thomas’s spindly, freckled hands grasping John’s naked thighs). But he had miscalculated. And he had been in a tricky situation, himself, and he’d never been good at tricky situations, so he had messed it up. They had both messed it up.

John had to admit that this was pretty much the gist of things. Thomas had always had a remarkable blind spot concerning the feelings of others, not because he was deliberately mean or cold as a person, quite the opposite, but because the subtle social cues that came so easy to John were a complex puzzle to Thomas that warranted some amount of deciphering, calculating and lucky guessing – and sometimes he guessed wrong. John, for his part, had simply been much too agitated over the loss of the election to take any of that into account. According to young Edward Cole, Thomas had called that his _sensitivities_. Well, he _had_ been sensitive, hadn’t he?

The longer the boy talked of what he had seen of the Jefferson family at Monticello, the more John fell back into reminiscing and – dare he say it – pining. Yes, he might as well admit it – he was full-on pining for Thomas again. He still loved him after all, and he always had, and he told Edward Cole as much. He didn’t mention it to Abby, later, because she was still determined to hold on to her grudge, as she generally held grudges longer than John did.

He didn’t write to Monticello at this point in time because, well, he still had his pride. There was now Benjamin Rush, their common friend, ceaselessly trying to coerce him to extend a hand due South, but still, Thomas had _hurt_ him, and he didn’t see why _he_ had to be the one to take the plunge. It would be a sign of true greatness, Dr. Rush said. _Still_ , John insisted. He knew he was being petulant. Which was childish. But he was also scared.

In the end, he couldn’t take all this waiting around anymore. He’d always been a man who took action. So he sat down, penned a note – nothing too long, neither too formal nor too informal, just a short, casual line to break twelve years of ice. He included a gift that was sure to get Thomas’s attention – some wonderful manuscripts by his own son John Quincy. Thomas had liked Quincy when they had met in France, and if he could live in a fort made of books he no doubt would. This was the perfect way to get back into his good graces. It really was a blessing that John knew his man so well.

Now he just had to wait.

 

* * *

 

The letter reached Thomas completely out of the blue. He had just returned from his midmorning walk in the garden and settled down in his study to take care of his correspondence when suddenly John’s handwriting caught his eye from atop a small pile of unopened letters. But it could impossibly be _John’s_ handwriting, he thought as he opened the letter with trembling hands. John didn’t write to him anymore. It had to be someone else whose hand just happened to look similar.

He unfolded the letter, his heart pounding, readying himself for the inevitable disappointment. Disappointment did not come. The letter was from John.

It was really, really from John.

The letter in and of itself was not very interesting. John was sending him a package of something. His family was well. He wished him a happy new year. A triviality, at first glance, for history to shrug off. But Thomas realized the significance of this. After all these years, years in which Thomas had almost gotten used to being alone, John was reaching out to him again. Across twelve years of icy silence, despite all the vile things they’d both said before that, John was telling him that he was not willing to give up on him. That he was important enough for John to overcome his grudge and wave a tentative white flag in his general direction. And he’d closed the letter with a reminder that they were still, well, friends at least.

He clutched the letter to his chest, feeling his eyes well up, euphoric with joy. If it weren’t for his bad joints, he would have bounced. He had now undoubtedly reached his twilight years, and he was constantly aware of his age sitting heavily in his bones, but in that moment he felt like a schoolboy with a crush again.

When at last the giddiness abated and the overwhelming relief took over, he went to sit in his favorite alcove to have a nice, cleansing cry. His favorite granddaughter found him there, still clutching the letter, crying quietly to himself in an unobtrusive way.

“Oh, grandfather,” she said. “Bad news?”

“Quite the opposite, dear,” Thomas replied, wiping his eyes to pretty much no avail. He did not cry often, but when he did, it was like floodgates bursting open. He had little to no control over when it ended. He still tried to smile through the tears. “I cry because I’m happy.”

“Ah. Good news, then,” Ann said in her direct way. Ann was a capable young woman, and she had inherited his interest in gardening. She was never impolite, but she also did not like to waste words. “Who’s the letter from?”

“He was… he’s an old… friend.” Thomas took a shaky breath, feeling himself nearing the end of the crying fit. “Of course you’ve heard of John Adams.”

“Mr. Adams was the president before you.”

“That he was, but there’s much more to him than that.” He scooted over to make room for her in the alcove. “Sit, and I’ll tell you the story.”

 

* * *

 

John hadn’t been sure when to expect a reply from Thomas, or whether to expect a reply at all. He was antsy for days after sending his little peace offer. Maybe Thomas wouldn’t accept the apology? John knew that for all his dealings with filth like Callender back in 1800, for all his devious smear campaigning, Thomas had a soft, soft heart. Oh goodness. The softest heart that John knew. And maybe, maybe he had broken it too badly…

But an answer came, and when John read it with a smile, he could almost hear Thomas’s voice, and it was practically gushing. Apparently Thomas had been pining, too, and now, being presented with favorable attentions, he blossomed like a sunflower exposed to a sudden ray of light. His style was animated and brimming with affection, as if he’d found a spring of pure love somewhere and dipped his quill pen into it to compose the letter now before John’s eyes. He gave an account of his own health and business and all but begged to hear more of what John was up to. He also griped a little about the concerns of ageing, but John found he couldn’t imagine Thomas as an old man. This was clearly his boy writing, vivacious and sensitive and forever in his thirties.

As John composed his reply he wished there was some way to convey to Thomas the true feelings that gripped his heart, to discuss the side of their relationship that they had never put to paper. Letters were nice enough, but at the end of the day they were a poor substitute for conversing in person. And it was more than conversation that John missed: he wanted to see Thomas, not just in his imagination but with his very own eyes, he wanted to hold his real, physical, non-metaphorical hand, to stroke his hair, to see the shimmer of affection in his eyes, to marvel at how the constellations of freckles on his face shifted when he smiled. To make Thomas smile was to gaze into the heart of the cosmos and behold the stars on their eternal journey across the sky.

Well, there were also other, less platonic things he wanted, but he had to admit that they _were_ both rather old now. Even attempting it would certainly not come easy. Of course that didn’t stop him from reminiscing, and he had an excellent memory.

He banned these thoughts from his mind as he sat down and started scribbling an answer.

 

Thomas took his time with his next reply, but when it came, it was an especially thick envelope of several pages. Most of them were covered in Thomas’s neat handwriting, and he talked about books he’d read and things he’d seen and things they’d done together. The last page, however, was a surprise. The writing there consisted entirely of a chain of numbers, broken up in places by fragments of sentences. John recognized the old cipher they had used in Europe for sending politically sensitive messages back and forth between England and France.

A note at the bottom said,

“Dear John, again,

I cannot help it. Your friendly letter having sparked in me such feelings, which I had assumed long dormant, I have divined a method to divulge to you what must be kept between you and I. I hope you have held on to your code book. When you have read this page, I must kindly ask you to destroy it, this being not for the eyes of posterity, but an expression of my most secret heart. If time has lessened your own feelings for me, and professions of that kind are no longer a thing you wish, simply refrain from mentioning it in your next letter. I will take the hint and stay with sincere respect and affection your friend and humble servant etc.”

John’s smile widened as he traced the numbers, wondering what they might reveal. “That’s my clever boy,” he muttered. “My beautiful, brilliant boy.”

He put the letter down, locking the special page away in a desk drawer. “Abigail?!”

“Yes?” Abby shouted back from somewhere within the house.

“Abby, where did I put my old code book?”

 

Deciphering the secret message was a fun way to pass an afternoon. It brought John back to old times, when he and Thomas had both been younger. He remembered that Thomas had always been very quick at learning ciphers. At the end, he hadn’t even had to so much as glance at the code book, and he’d regularly corrected John when he’d made a mistake.

The message was a hesitant confession of what Thomas truly felt. He was always hesitant in matters of the heart. And twelve years were such a long time.

So of course Thomas had been pining. He was a pining thing. He had been so alone (except, John couldn’t help but add in the recesses of his mind, for the girl named Sally whom Thomas pointedly did not mention). His presidency had been horrible, especially the second term, and he had missed John’s guidance. John’s comfort. Just John. John could practically _see_ the blush on Thomas’s face as he elaborated on the relatively chaste little fantasies he had been indulging in: of seeing John, of being forgiven, being held, maybe even… of a kiss… or two…?

“You utterly impossible…” John muttered, putting the letter down. For all his years (he had to be in his seventies now, right?) Thomas wrote like a stammering teenager. What of his eloquence now? His golden pen that – as John had heard – wrote so well of love? Not that John knew. The many pages that Thomas had, in another time, penned to Mrs. Cosway were still a subject of much gossip, but he’d never seen them. He didn’t want to, either. He idly wondered what sorts of things Thomas would write home to that unfortunate Miss Hemings. If that one could even read.

Well, maybe now that John had made his re-entry in Thomas’s life, Miss Hemings, whoever she was, would get some rest. Again he wished that there was any way for him to be there physically. Especially as he had never seen Monticello with his own two eyes.

Consulting the code book, he smirked as he wrote a note that could be considered saucy. He was looking forward to seeing how Thomas would handle not only being given affirmation that John still wanted him in the more-than-platonic sense but also being confronted with John’s own fantasies, those that were anything but chaste.

Thomas made him wait for a reply, but when it came, enclosed with the “official” letter was a coded note with a tongue-in-cheek retaliation and a gentle reminder that if they were to try any of the things John had described, one or both of them would probably break a hip or throw out his back or die on top of the other. John laughed, absolutely in love.

 

In the following months, this became their routine. A few letters a month were regularly exchanged. They talked of politics, philosophy, religion and the troubles of old men in what John came to call the “cover letters”. They were aware that both of them, especially Thomas on his remote mountaintop, were still under scrutiny, and their reignited correspondence had been noticed. Not long into things, Thomas was approached by a printer asking if they meant to publish (Thomas’s reply was extremely indignant). At some point, after they were both long departed from this earth, people would read these letters. None of them ever mentioned it, but they both knew that while of course their feelings towards each other and their reasons for ending their feud were genuine as ever, they were posing a bit for posterity, as they would for a portrait. The letters were important not only to them, but to how people in the future would perceive them and their relationship. And their official relationship was a close, but totally non-scandalous friendship.

The coded, “true” letters were a risk, but not one they couldn’t take. They were not for posterity, they were for them, just for them, and they were needed (especially by Thomas) as a reassurance that beyond the little political theatre they were enacting, there still was, and always had been, their genuine love. As much as they both wished to preserve these letters, they burned each and every one of them after reading, and tried as best as they could to learn the words by heart. There was still the risk of someone intercepting a letter and somehow managing to decipher their code, but that risk was comparatively small, and they didn’t want to sacrifice the only way they had to communicate their true feelings because of it.

These letters were sometimes of a purely romantic, but more often than not of a quite scandalous nature. Their cipher had been meant to exchange news of treaties and trade deals, not to produce pornography, so they had to be somewhat… inventive. A month into this and they had entered a contest on who could invent the silliest, yet still effective, euphemism for anal penetration using only the words in the code book. John had some unfair advantage in this, because whereas Thomas entered the contest completely on his own, John was getting help from Abby, who had started reading over his shoulder whenever a letter from Thomas arrived. Her gift for wordplay was ingenious and her wit quick as ever, and soon she announced she would like to write a letter of her own to Monticello. John was delighted by this. It meant she was finally coming around to the thought of forgiving Thomas for the pain he had caused. Soon she was habitually leaving coded notes underneath John’s. The three of them were truly united again. For a while, it was like the 1780s and Europe all over again.

 

The crucial part of this sentence being _for a while_. They wrote to each other in the knowledge that what was still unsaid had to be said, and quickly, because all of them had lingered very long and now they didn’t have time. They were old, very old, and each beginning to be plagued by the little annoying maladies that came with the body’s constitution declining as it slowly but gradually shut down. Of the congress of 1776, they were almost the only ones left alive.

 

Abby was the first one to depart. John had written a letter to Monticello when it became clear that the end was nigh, and now he wrote another one saying that the end had come. When it reached Thomas, he locked himself in his bedroom to cry, and this time it was not happy crying. He couldn’t even fathom how John had to be feeling. They had both cherished her wit and her wisdom, but for John, Abigail had been everything, a constant in his whole life, his rock and his home and his dearest friend through thick and thin. It seemed wrong that she should die and Thomas, who couldn’t be any of these things to John, should stay behind.

Thomas looked back on the last few years, on all of their friends and foes and acquaintances all dropping off one after the other, until he and John were starting to feel terribly alone…

He resolved to write John more often.

 

As the years went by, and more and more things they had used to enjoy just had to be filed off under “not manageable anymore”, they still found time and strength to write. When their eyes and the strength of their hands failed, when it became impossibly hard to hold a quill or to distinguish the other’s ever shakier handwriting, they grabbed an unassuming family member for help. Unfortunately now the coded letters had to cease, but it was all the same. Everything that had had to be said on… this matter was said. They did not need to assure each other of their love anymore. They knew. They _knew_. But it was invaluable to have the letters at all, the tangible proof that the other was there. The letters were important. The letters had to continue. They became increasingly like a lifeline, tethering them to existence and to each other. And every letter they wrote brought them closer to their last.

 

And then it was the 4th of July, 1826.

 

“Is it the fourth?”

His voice was raspy in his own ears, no more than a hoarse whisper.

“It will soon be,” the doctor said. Clearly the man was attempting a reverent whisper, befitting this hallowed (hot and odious) sickroom, where an American demigod was breathing his last. What a load of horseshit, thought Thomas, who was dying and thus felt he could allow himself to be a little unfriendly. He beckoned for the man to speak up. His hearing was not what it had once been.

He let his hazy gaze sweep over his family, who had been holding out here for days, his _whole_ family: there were Madison and Eston and James Hemings, standing at the foot of the bed a little stiffly, in a room together with all these Randolphs and Bankheads, and Sally was sitting on the bed with all the hauteur of a queen on her throne and nobody told her she hadn’t a right to be there. Nobody glared, nobody objected. All of them were simply too sad and tired, worn out by their long watch.

_Go get some sleep, all of you_ , Thomas wanted to tell them. _I promise you I don’t need your assistance to die. I’ll try and make it quick, it won’t be a bother._ But even if he’d had the strength to spare to pronounce all these words, he knew they wouldn’t budge an inch until he had finished his business. He realized he was feeling something close to stage-fright. Could he die with everyone looking?

There the doctor was again with his horrid laudanum. Thomas waved him off. He had spent too much time in his recent years in an opiate haze due to his long illness. It had been a choice between having what precious senses he had left even more numbed than they’d already been simply by age, and writhing weakly in unbearable, searing pain. It was a blasted indignity either way. But now he could barely feel any pain, or anything at all as it were, and if he had to go to his grave with that repulsive, cloying, bitter taste of laudanum in his mouth, he was going to scream. No, he thought rebelliously, he would not ingest this stuff another time in his entire life.

He settled with a weak sigh. Just a few more hours until the fourth.

He did regret having to leave in such a way. He did regret never having said some proper goodbyes to John.

Just a few… more… hours…

An unspecified amount of time had passed when he rose back into consciousness, blinking blearily into the faces of his family. Oh, so he was still alive. And it was the fourth, hopefully. How on earth was he still alive? He was so weary. He was just about through with being alive, with being sick and in pain…

He noted that this was probably one of the last moments of lucidity that he would get, so he used it to go over his very short mental checklist. Yes, he had written his will. Yes, he had said his goodbyes to his family and his favored slaves. No, he had not said goodbye to John, who wasn’t here, but he hoped John would understand. Anything else?

He would never regret his decision to place his bed in the hallway, but right now he felt like he was sinking into it. If he could die in a more dignified position and with his pillows adjusted, he thought idly, that would be nice. He fixed his eyes upon his favorite grandson, Jeff Randolph, and tried to convey to him this want through the medium of intensive blinking. The young man blinked back at him, his eyes full of tears and not understanding. Oh good god. Why did the boy have to choose this very moment to be slow on the uptake?

It was Burwell Colbert, the enslaved man who had in the recent years served as Thomas’s butler, who at last stepped quietly forward and propped up the pillows. Thomas tried to smile at him. The flash of a memory…

 

_He had been very, very small, too small to walk much or to say much. He could not tell how old exactly. Only that he had been wrapped up snugly in a pillow, that he’d still been in that age where it’s acceptable to suck on your thumb, and that he’d been handed from his mother’s arms into the grasp of a tired-looking dark man on a tired-looking dark horse. He didn’t know where they’d been going or why. He remembered that he’d considered screaming a bit because the dark man was not his mother, but then he’d looked up into the dark man’s calm eyes and had accepted this fate. A pudgy white hand had emerged from the blanket cocoon to grasp the man’s rough, coarse shirt: he still remembered how it had felt. The man had cooed to him a few words that he hadn’t understood and he had tried to coo back. A second later, he had tucked in his head and fallen asleep._

 

This, perhaps the earliest memory of his entire life, ended in the dark eyes of, as Thomas now of course knew, a slave. Now, in his last moments, he looked up again and met the tired, dark eyes in the brown face of Burwell Colbert.

_Oh god dammit_ , he thought, and died.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in Massachusetts, events of a similar nature were occurring.

They had gotten John into bed, but he had only gone under protest. It was the fourth, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of a certain declaration. He had to write to Thomas, and if it was the last thing he did.

“You can write all the letters you wish tomorrow,” said his youngest son, and a little while later, as the family began to flock around his bed, it occurred to John that they had known all along that there would not be a tomorrow. At least not for John Adams.

But how were they to understand? It was fair enough that John should go today. It was a good day for it. But Thomas, oh, dear Thomas, he was still so young, and he would now be all alone. Thomas could not be left alone. His mind started picking itself apart when he didn’t have company. This was not to be encouraged.

But it was good that Thomas should live. He was the last one of the Congress of 1776. He would continue to remember this day as the anniversary of a great victory, and would hopefully not think it blighted by the timely, maybe almost overdue, death of a beloved friend. He would carry the weight of remembrance on his shoulders, and he would carry it gracefully.

Was not Thomas in this very room today?

Yes, there he was, coming ever closer: he was strangely transparent, but that didn’t matter, John would love his boy always, even in a transparent state. And anyway, he was growing clearer and clearer, almost radiant, while his surroundings and John’s family dulled into vague, nondescript shapes. But everything had always seemed vague and nondescript when Thomas was near, so enraptured had John always been by the younger man’s presence.

Thomas was smiling. And he didn’t look a day older than thirty-three.

That was wonderful. “Thomas… Jefferson,” John breathed. He was not sure if anybody heard him. Thomas now extended a hand, beckoning him to grasp it, to come away, to finally elope with him the way they’d always dreamed they would, and always known they wouldn’t. John wanted to, really, and he tried to reach to take the proffered hand, but his putrid, rotting prison of a body would not move, would not permit him to raise his hand an inch. Oh, he was so tired of this. And there they were, all around his bed, gawking at him like a flock of particularly dense sheep. Did they not see he was struggling? Did they not see his transparent, glowing miracle of a lover right in their midst, so gloriously alive to keep watch over the republic from atop his mountain? Did he really have to raise their attention to it before they deigned to notice?

“Thomas Jefferson survives,” he whispered again, with intent.

At that, Thomas smiled fondly but sadly, tears welling up in his eyes. He said something that John could not make out. _You’re so young_ , he thought. _You need to speak up if you want this old man to understand you._

Thomas should not cry. John strained again to move, to rectify this, but found it utterly impossible. He did succeed in raising the attention of the closest family member, his granddaughter Susanna. Perhaps she could come to his aid.

“Help me, child,” he breathed at her. If she reacted in any way, he did not notice anymore, for finally his struggles were successful and he leaped from the bed in a fluent movement the likes of which had not been possible to him in years and captured Thomas’s hand. Something else stayed back on the bed, prone and cold, but that something was no longer John Adams.

“Well, that was easy… oh. Oh _dear_.”

“Yes,” Thomas affirmed, patting his hand. He was now the only clearly distinguishable thing in the room. “And I’m sorry for ruining your last words.”

It had started in Philadelphia, on a hot summer night. And as far as the living, breathing world was concerned, it ended here.


End file.
